


Miles to Go Before I Sleep

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Emma wants is a set-up from her aggravating co-worker, but sometimes these things are out of our hands. And sometimes, deviant boys cut down trees, and we have to stake out the forest in the dead of night. please note the change in rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cereal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/gifts).



“Swan.” 

  


“Jones.” 

  


Emma looked up from her computer, barely acknowledging his entrance. He had a white paper bag pinched between two fingers and he laid it down carefully next to her keyboard, smirking before turning and going to his own desk. He shrugged out of his parka and sighed as he sat; Emma pointedly ignored him, as always. 

  


She eyed the bag, noticing some grease spots making their way through the paper. She could smell the cloying sugar and her stomach grumbled; damn him for knowing when she'd forgotten to eat breakfast, anyway. 

  


“Crap,” David groaned from across the station, slamming the phone down and standing abruptly. “Listen, guys. Mary Margaret thinks she's in labor. Again. Can I count on you two kids to behave while dad is gone?” 

  


“Yes, Sheriff,” they said in unison, Emma whipping her neck around angrily when Jones called out a “jinx” on her. 

  


“Let us know how it goes,” she said as David threw his coat on; he slammed into his gloves and whipped a beanie on his head, in a rush to get to the hospital. It was like, the third false alarm that month, but everyone in town knew that his wife's first pregnancy was hard on Sheriff Nolan. 

  


“Good luck, mate,” Jones called out, waving and winking as their boss hurried out of the station. Then he turned to Emma and leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. He raised his eyebrows and gave her a significant look. “We've got the whole place to ourselves now, love. What ever shall we do?” 

  


“Bite me, Jones.” 

  


“With relish.” 

  


Emma grinned despite herself, shaking her head and reaching for the breakfast Jones had delivered. She took a deep breath and peeked into the bag. 

  


It was a glazed old-fashioned. 

  


She looked up, watching as he poked the last bite of a bear claw into his mouth. He grinned around the mouthful, waggling his eyebrows at her for emphasis. 

  


“Thanks a lot, asshole,” she laughed. 

  


He nodded happily. 

  


It was the way with them. 

  


Three years she'd been a deputy for Storybrooke. Three years she'd been working alongside Liam fucking Jones, and the entire time, they'd had a weird, kind of antagonistic, kind of mutually respecting work relationship. 

  


It wasn't attraction; Mary Margaret, the sheriff's wife and mother to all, had wondered about that in the beginning, thinking Emma should just scratch the itch and get it over with so that David wouldn't come home every day, complaining about being a referee for two grown-ass adults at work. But Emma didn't want to sleep with Liam. It wasn't attraction, not really; sure, Jones was handsome as hell, and charming to boot. She could even acknowledge that he was a nice guy, but there was something about him that was more “big brother harassing his kid sister” than “please take me up against the FBI top ten most wanted poster and the flyer for the St. Leopold's Rummage Sale.” 

  


Besides, he was always trying to get her to partner him at Canasta so that he could “kick my sorry little brother's arse for once,” despite her telling him that Canasta is lame, what is he, sixty-five, and no, she wasn't as cutthroat at cards as she was at bagging criminals (which was a total lie, but Jones would never know, because she wasn't going to play fucking Canasta). 

  


The thing was--Emma got the distinct impression that Jones just wanted to set her up with his brother, his single brother. He was always dropping comments about the things they supposedly had in common, like being stubborn (she was no expert, but she was pretty sure that wasn't a good thing for a relationship) or enjoying Discovery channel marathons or the unhealthy need for constant caffeination. She simply didn't have room in her life for another Englishman to mock her or flirt with her or whatever it was that Liam did that drove her up a wall. So no, she didn't want to know his brother. Maybe she was crazy, but Liam really seemed to want them to meet, and there was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction. And she wasn't all that sure she wanted to meet a guy who played Canasta. 

  


“I'm sorry, Swan,” Liam said, interrupting her thoughts. “I did have two bear claws in there, but my little brother wanted one, and I certainly wasn't going to go without. So, you ended up with that dainty little thing. Killian loves himself a bear claw. Another thing you two have in common.” 

  


She knew she wasn't crazy. 

  


“Oh, don't worry,” she said airily, flipping her wrist at him. “Lunch is on me today. Because you bought me breakfast, and all.” Liam's eyes narrowed, and it was all she could do to keep from grinning. He always “forgot” to get her a bear claw, she always “forgot” he hated raw onions on his burgers. Granny didn't even roll her eyes whenever Emma ordered lunch anymore, their little food feud had been going on that long. 

  


David had been gone a little over an hour when Jefferson Chapelier, one of the local characters, came bursting into the station. 

  


“How long before you pigs actually do something about the destruction of our great and majestic forest?” he demanded, pointing first at Liam, then Emma, then swinging his arm toward the sheriff's desk but faltering slightly when he realized David's chair was empty. “Where's the sheriff?” 

  


“Mary Margaret is having Braxton-Hicks again,” Jones told him. Emma noticed Jones was trying to keep from smiling because everyone in town knew not to poke the bear when Jefferson got going about one of his pet causes, so she schooled her expression and tried to look polite as she folded her hands across her desk. 

  


“What can we do for you, Mr. Chapelier?” 

  


He turned to her, smirking as he crossed his arms across his chest. 

  


“The trees, Deputy Swan. The majestic trees. Someone has been cutting them down and leaving them for dead. There's a new one this very morning.” 

  


Emma was amazed he could say stuff like that with a straight face. 

  


“Uh-huh. You sure it isn't like, uh. Lumberjacks? Or people poaching?” Can you poach trees? 

  


“Storybrooke Forest is a protected area, Deputy,” Jefferson told her for like, the eighteenth time in as many months. “You need to catch these vandals! It's your job to ensure this kind of thing doesn't happen!” 

  


“I know, I know.” Emma sighed; despite Jefferson's zeal and slightly overprotective attitude toward the trees, she knew he was right. Someone was vandalizing the town, and they had yet to catch anyone in the act. Rude graffiti across the pawn shop window one day, rice in people's lawns the next. It had been getting steadily more destructive, however, and when leaving large Blair Witch-like stuff hanging in the forest had turned into stripping the bark from some of the older pines and painting them ridiculous shades of blue, the sheriff's station knew they were going to have to get more proactive about catching the criminals in the act. 

  


Emma thought it might be the group of older boys who liked to terrorize local businesses by running around in a pack like something out of a Kubrik movie, but there was little proof of that, just a hunch. But oh, was she dying to catch them doing something illegal. Like cutting down protected trees. She could just see herself arresting that smirky little shit Felix, and she felt a smile curl her lips. 

  


She looked over at Jones and saw a look on his face that was similar to what she was feeling—grim determination, and a little bit of satisfaction. 

  


“So, are you guys gonna do something about this, or what?” 

  


“It would be nice to have something to actually do in this town,” Jones mused, catching Emma's eye. “Perhaps we ought to go have a look, Swan.” As annoying as he was to work with sometimes, Liam Jones was actually a pretty good cop, even if Storybrooke was a sleepy little town. She'd worked as a bounty hunter before finding herself in Storybrooke and deciding to stay for the small town vibe and Henry's sake, and she'd seen her share of asshole cops on power trips. Despite his petty need to aggravate her on a daily basis, Jones wasn't bad to work with. He was fair and honorable and everything else you'd want in your local sheriff's deputy, and even though she'd never admit it out loud, he was often in the right when it came to things like this. 

  


The station line rang and Emma picked it up, glad for the excuse to leave Jones to deal with the complaining Jefferson. 

  


“Storybrooke Sheriff's--” 

  


“Emma, it's David.” She heard him take a deep breath, and she felt her brow furrow in concern. Something was wrong. “It's for real this time.” 

  


Emma felt a grin split her face. “Yeah?” 

  


“Yep. But the baby is breech, so--” 

  


“You're going to be while.” She sighed, scrubbing her face and looking at Jones. His eyes questioned her for a second, so she mouthed, “David,” and shook her head. He immediately understood. 

  


“Don't worry, Dad,” she said, grinning. “Good luck. Give Mary Margaret our love. Tell her to break a leg, or something. Let us know the second he's born.” 

  


“Will do,” he said. She could hear the pride and smile in his voice, but also the worry, so she shot a brief prayer heavenwards that all would be well. Then she hung up and turned to deal with the problem still berating Jones for the ineptitude of modern law enforcement agencies. 

  


After reassuring Jefferson that they'd do “all in our power to apprehend the violators of natural beauty” (she didn't even try to stop her eyes from rolling at Jones' florid, exaggerated speech), Emma and Liam geared up and made their way to their shared squad car, Emma winning roshambo and grinning with satisfaction as she took the wheel. 

  


“How'd the history test go?” Liam asked as they were driving toward the edge of town. 

  


“A-minus,” she said proudly. 

  


“That Henry is a smart lad,” he murmured approvingly. “Much like his Uncle Liam.” 

  


“Don't call yourself that.” 

  


“He loves me.” 

  


“Yeah, because you ply him with bad food and really bad puns. And help him pass world history exams.” 

  


Jones grinned; he really seemed to enjoy it whenever Henry stopped by the station, having once said something about how the lad reminded him of when he and his brother were young and carefree. His eyes had seemed sad, and she almost wanted to ask why, but they just weren't that close. Anyway, Henry liked Liam and David both, and Emma was glad she'd made the decision to leave the big city and move to a small town, to a place where people actually knew each other, and where her kid could find men who were good role models. Even Jones, but she'd never tell him that. 

  


Once they'd pulled over to the highway marker Jefferson had told them to look for, they quickly found what he had been so up in arms about, and Emma looked around in dismay. There were two trees laying on the ground, obviously recently cut down and looking forlorn. She hated to admit it, but Jefferson was right about the majesty of the trees being ruined. 

  


Jones scratched his head, his brow wrinkling as he assessed the forest surrounding them. 

  


“Well, I'm not sure how we go about finding who--” 

  


He was interrupted by a loud crash followed by whooping out in the distance. 

  


“Right.” 

  


He was close behind her as they ran toward the noise, Emma hoping they were going in the right direction. She went on instinct, taking off and making sure her gun was unclipped. She really hoped she wouldn't have to use it; three years here in Maine and the only time she'd ever had to draw was to break up a bar fight between Leroy and Ruby Lucas over at the Rabbit Hole, but that was just to get their attention. Like she'd shoot Leroy for taking issue with Ruby making fun of his ordering a Cosmopolitan for himself. 

  


Emma noticed a bunch of leaves and dirt and stuff settling in the air around them and knew they'd found the right place. She slowed a bit, putting her hand out to warn Liam. He came up beside her, surprisingly quiet and nimble for a guy of his size. They both drew and then separated, going to flank the now-loud noise of boys chattering at each other. 

  


“The fuzz!” she heard from ahead. Laughing a curse under her breath (“the fuzz,” really?), she holstered her gun and took off running, the sound of scattering telling her that someone had spotted them. 

  


By the time she got to the newly fallen tree, no one was there. Minutes later there was the sound of scuffling and filthy language shouted with voice cracks as Jones appeared, a struggling boy bound with his arms behind his back being shoved in front of her. 

  


“Gordie,” she said with satisfaction. “What an unpleasant surprise.” 

  


“I don't know nuffin',” he huffed. He even pressed his lips together for full effect. 

  


“Lovely,” Jones said dryly. He released one of the hands holding the youngster and reached into his back pocket for his phone. “I'll just call your mother to come get you, then.” 

  


“No, wait!” Gordie said, panic clear in his eyes. Emma almost laughed but schooled her features, trying to look serious as he turned his pleading eyes to her. “I can tell you where they'll be next! Just, please. Call my dad first.” 

  


“What do you think, Deputy Swan? Seems like we've finally caught our vandals in the act. Think he's lying?” Jones said. His eyes were twinkling and she had to bite her cheek to keep from smiling. 

  


“I don't know, Deputy Jones. Can we trust the word of someone who'd violate such natural beauty?” 

  


His eyes narrowed as he tried to keep his own laughter in. 

  


“No, really! There's this clearing about a half mile in the northernmost part of the forest, and we're all supposed to meet up there later to, um.” Gordie licked his lips and looked nervous. “Party. And plan more stuff.” 

  


“Gordie,” Emma sighed, silently thanking God that her own kid wasn't at all like these future convicts. “What're we talking here? Drugs? Booze? More tree-chopping?” 

  


He nodded, and she sighed again. 

  


“Right,” Jones said firmly. “I'm taking you in, and I'll even call your father.” Gordie seemed relieved. “As for you, Swan. I think you'd best stake out this alleged meeting place.” 

  


“What? How the hell am I going to do that?” 

  


“You always say you want to do something about these delinquents. Well, now's your chance.” 

  


She laughed. “Yeah, I don't do forests. Staking out the trees? Isn't that like, camping? I don't do camping, either.” 

  


“Huh.” Liam started walking, guiding Gordie in front of him as he carefully picked his way back to the car. He didn't speak for a good fifteen minutes, all three of them busy with not tripping on underbrush and trying not to sound winded as they hiked back to the squad car. “You know who does?” 

  


“Does what?” 

  


“Camping. Staking out trees.” 

  


“You?” 

  


“Please,” Jones scoffed. “I was navy. No, Killian. He was Marines, did this sort of thing when he was in. Survival is something he's very good at.” 

  


“Liam,” she laughed. “You can't ask your brother to stake out the freaking forest. He's not a deputy.” 

  


“No, but you are.” 

  


“And?” 

  


“And,” he said, making an “a-ha” sound as they reached the road. The car was a ways down, but Emma was glad for the flatness of the pavement despite the distance away. “And I'm sure I could convince him to come out here and help you stake the place out.” 

  


“That is probably the dumbest thing you've ever said, including the time you tried to convince me that streaking for St. Patrick's Day is a thing back home.” 

  


“Can't blame a man for trying,” Jones chuckled, smacking Gordie on the back of the head when he laughed in lewd appreciation. “Eyes on the road, Gordon. Anyway,” he continued, turning to look at Emma seriously. “One of us needs to do it.” 

  


“You and your brother can do whatever you want in the forest,” she told him, opening the back door so Liam could shove Gordie in. 

  


Jones slammed the door and then leaned against it, looking at her thoughtfully before reaching into his pocket. He pulled his hand out and produced a shiny quarter pinched between thumb and forefinger. 

  


“Flip you for it?” 

  


“This is dumb. I'm not flipping you to see who gets to spend the night out in the forest.” 

  


“Scared of the trees, Swan?” 

  


“Of trees? No. Wolves? Yes. Bears? Yes. No food or caffeine? Absolutely.” 

  


“You can bring your blasted coffee,” he laughed. “And I told you. Killian is a survivor. He's excellent at this sort of thing.” 

  


“So why don't you do it?” she said, exasperated but amused despite herself. “He's your brother.” 

  


“I'm more of the command type,” he replied smoothly. “Heads or tails, Swan.” He brandished the quarter, wiggling it between his fingers in challenge. 

  


“Oh, fine. Heads.” Jones flipped. Naturally, it came up tails. 

  


“Two out of three.” 

  


She lost again. 

  


“Maybe we could--” 

  


“Oh, come now, Swan,” Jones said, his voice a little too full of glee. “Fair and square, and all that. Bright side?” He opened the passenger door and slid in, which was a major concession toward letting her drive, but he seemed to be getting great enjoyment out of the fact that she'd lost the coin toss. “Now you can finally meet my kid brother.” 

  


Gordie seemed eager to cooperate, giving as many specific details about the future meeting place as possible, probably counting on his cooperation in getting him out of serious trouble. The kid was only fourteen, so Liam and Emma agreed to let him off easy as long as he kept his nose clean. Back in the city, she'd be considering juvy, but here in Storybrooke, things could be more personal. She and Jones made it very clear that he was on their radar from now on, so he'd better behave. He told them the meet-up wasn't until after sundown, so they had several hours to wait until Emma would have to go back to the freaking forest to catch some stupid kids in the act. 

  


She tried once again to get Jones to switch or at least accompany her, babbling about back-up and what if they tried something, but he just raised his eyebrows at that. 

  


“Never thought I'd see the day when Emma Swan admitted she was incapable of handling a couple of hoodlums on her own. Why, the Emma Swan I know took pride in her ability to capture men with glorious bounty at stake, regaling us all with tales of her more dangerous adventures, flaming sword in hand, her hair shining like a golden halo of fiery--” 

  


“Shut up. Fine. But you'd better have your phone on in case I need you.” 

  


“I wouldn't dream of leaving a lady hanging, Deputy Swan.” 

  


Jones excused himself once they'd gotten back to the station, pulling out his phone as Emma shoved Gordie into a folding chair at her desk. She called his father and by the time the man showed up looking pissed, Jones had returned. He was grinning, producing a big bag from Granny's and seating himself in Gordie's recently vacated chair. 

  


With a flourish, he pulled out a clear plastic take-out container with a grilled cheese and onion rings, just the way she liked it. She gave the food a wary eye, cracking open the container and leaning down to sniff it. She pried the sandwich open, looking for pickles or tomatoes or anything else gross that did not belong on a grilled cheese sandwich but finding it clear and good. Reaching down and taking a bite, she eyed Liam suspiciously as he took a large bite of his own Reuben. 

  


“What's the catch?” 

  


“No catch,” he said, sucking on the straw of his lemonade. “Just feeling magnanimous.” 

  


“Uh huh,” she said, returning to her food and for once, enjoying a lunch break with her irritating coworker. “Because you finally get to introduce me to the brother.” 

  


“Aye. Killian. Eight years younger. Recently moved in with his more handsome, more dashing elder brother.” Emma rolled her eyes when he grinned. “He agreed to coming tonight, albeit reluctantly, although I've no idea why. You’re a delight. Let's see,” he said, affecting a thoughtful pose as he tapped his chin. “Things you can talk about: sailing. Gun care. Make a joke about how the marines are technically part of the navy, he loves that. What else? Oh, books. He loves to read. Anything he can get his hands on, really. Except Steinbeck. Also detests Coldplay. Has several--” 

  


“Jones,” she interrupted, tossing an onion ring at his chest. “Stop trying to sell your brother to me. This isn't a date.” 

  


“I'm not setting you two up on a date!” he protested, but he definitely protested a little too vehemently. “I'm simply...giving you a jumping-off point with him. You're not exactly a scintillating conversationalist, you know.” 

  


“What does that mean!” she said indignantly, almost squeaking in her incredulity. She took a deep breath and said more calmly, “Is he as irritating as you are?” 

  


“More so.” 

  


“Great.” She finished her sandwich, quietly thanking him for lunch and feeling weird when he simply smiled in response. 

  


This brother must be a real piece of work if Jones was being nice to her. 

  


She tried not to think about it too much, but as the hours wore on, she found herself trying to remember everything Liam had ever told her about his brother, Killian. He always seemed to be talking about the guy, and she could remember the day he'd burst into the station, excited because Killian “had finally given in to the siren call of settling down,” moving in with him and immediately finding work down at the docks. He repaired engines for boats, as far as she knew, and he was also supposedly adept at driving them (sailing them, whatever). Jones owned his own boat, and he was glad that his brother was there to help keep it maintained. 

  


She'd even seen Killian a couple of times from afar, though they'd never met. A fleeting glimpse one time when Jones had her stop for coffee and claimed he was feeling generous, making her drive to the docks so he could bring his brother food (Jones was forever feeding everyone, she noticed that early on). She'd gotten the impression of a slightly shorter, less broad version of Liam, the same messy hair attempting respectability and the same exact set to the shoulders when he tossed his head back in laughter. 

  


The other time had been at Granny's when she was grabbing dinner. Henry had been talking with a tall drink of water by the jukebox as she paid for their cheeseburgers, and it wasn't until her kid had excitedly informed her on the way out that Liam's brother was “so cool, mom! You should see his tattoos!” that she realized that had been Killian. She'd only noticed him because he had been a stranger talking to her kid, so her memories were colored with caution, but what she'd seen had looked pretty good to her. Then she'd realized he was related to Liam Jones, and her perception changed from wariness to flat exasperation. 

  


Maybe she should give Killian Jones a chance. Maybe he wasn't as big brother-y as Liam was. 

  


Her memories made her think of Henry, and she realized she'd have to see to her kid. She pulled out her phone and thumbed over her contacts, affirming his face was buried in his phone when he answered on the first ring. 

  


“Hey, ma.” 

  


“Hey, kid. Listen, I have to do a stakeout for work tonight, so--” 

  


“I know. Liam told me.” 

  


“What?” 

  


“I was with Killian when Liam called, and he asked to speak to me. Killian is teaching me how to sail, didn't I tell you? Anyway, he brought me home real quick, and we're about to head over to the station. You realize that Liam is tricking you, right? Probably so he won't have to work late. Killian says he's got his eye on someone who works down at the ice cream shop.” 

  


“That rat bastard,” Emma muttered. 

  


“Language, Mom.” 

  


“That little shit,” she amended. 

  


“Better. Anyway, I'll make Liam take me home. I can just order pizza and tuck myself in. I'll be fine.” 

  


“Okay,” she said reluctantly. She hated leaving him alone. She knew he was much safer here in Storybrooke than they'd ever been back in New York, even when there had been a babysitter, but still. 

  


She covered the phone speaker with her palm and looked over at Liam. 

  


“Hey, Jones. Since you tricked me into camping with your brother, you're going to swing by and check on my kid at least three times tonight.” 

  


“Right-o, Swan.” She opened her mouth to speak again but he cut her off. “Key’s under the broken brick on the porch, I remember.” 

  


“Thank you.” She removed her hand from the phone and said, “Liam will check on you, make sure you're still alive.” 

  


“And to bring the beer and hookers for the rager he’ll throw.” Emma ignored that. 

  


“I heard,” Henry chuckled. “Have a good time. And don't forget to ask Killian about his tattoos. You like guys with tattoos.” 

  


“Okay, kid,” she laughed. “See you in a bit. Love you.” 

  


“Love you, too. Be nice, Mom. I’ll be there soon.” 

  


About twenty minutes later, a clamor at the door announced Henry's arrival. Emma hung up the station phone, having just called the hospital to ask after Mary Margaret and whether any progress had been made. 

  


“Hey, kid. Still no baby.” 

  


“Now, that's a shame. The sheriff must be tearing his hair out.” Emma swung her chair around. 

  


That wasn't Henry. 

  


She looked up and was confronted with intense eyes of blue, looking straight at her for the first time, even if she'd been hearing about him for years now. 

  


Killian Jones. 

  


He wasn't smiling but his eyes were; Emma was pretty sure he knew exactly who she was, but she stood up anyway, feeling unaccountably warm and putting her hand out for lack of anything better to do. 

  


“You must be Killian. Emma Swan.” 

  


“Lovely to finally meet the infamous Swan,” he replied, his voice warm and friendly. He sounded very much like Jones—same accent, same low timbre. Same curl of mischief when he smiled faintly. He even looked at her in the same way, almost—making sure to keep eye contact and not letting his gaze do anything gross. That was one thing she always appreciated about Jones—that he never made it obvious if he was checking her out, and since his brother seemed to have been raised with the same kind of courtesy, Emma made a mental note to thank their mother or father or whoever it was who'd taught them to be gentlemen. Then she made another mental note to make sure Henry was the exact same way. 

  


“Infamous?” Emma said, raising a brow. Killian grinned, his eyes flicking over to Jones before shrugging. 

  


“I've heard some things.” 

  


“They're all true,” Jones called from the coffee maker. 

  


“I rather hope so,” Killian murmured, this time flicking his gaze down to her mouth and back up again. It was a small movement, but one she definitely noticed and oddly, she didn't bristle at. “He says you've got a mouth on you.” 

  


“Oh?” 

  


“He also says you're an excellent shot.” 

  


“Bullets or insults?” 

  


“Touché , Swan,” came Jones' voice again. 

  


“Oi, I'm talking to a lady here,” Killian called over his shoulder. 

  


“Quit flirting and get ready,” Jones hollered back. Emma chuckled and sat down, suddenly a little flustered. She'd enjoyed the flirting, but she’d also enjoyed the bantering of the brothers, so much that she caught herself wishing she'd had a sibling or two growing up. 

  


She had to sit so that neither Jones brother would notice that she'd gotten sad out of nowhere; she didn't like discussing her childhood, and for whatever reason, she got the distinct impression that Killian would immediately sense that something was up and make sure she was okay. She didn't think she was up for sharing herself with a complete stranger, even if Jones had told her so much about his brother that she felt like she already knew him. Standing there, looking at her like they were already friends, Emma felt the exact same way. There was something about this brother of Liam's that immediately put her at ease. Which, of course, freaked her out. 

  


So, Emma did as she always did when confronted with uncomfortable feelings—she changed the subject. 

  


“So. I guess you're going to be my forest ranger guide tonight, huh?” 

  


“Hmm?” 

  


“Camping? Survival training? You, me, the woods dark and deep?” 

  


Killian had an utterly perplexed look on his face, and at about the same time Emma figured out that Jones had never told his brother the real reason he was there, Killian came to the same exact conclusion. 

  


“Oh, captain, my captain?” 

  


Captain? Emma was confused, but when Liam appeared at the summons looking smug and happy, she figured it was some kind of nickname. His rank when he was in the navy, maybe? Emma realized she'd never known and kind of felt like a jerk for not knowing. 

  


“Yes, Lieutenant?” Jones pronounced it in the British way, leff-tenant. Somehow, it suited Killian. 

  


“Was there something you forgot to tell me about why you summoned me here this fine evening?” 

  


“Was there?” Jones sounded perfectly innocent, which made both Killian and Emma narrow their eyes at him. 

  


“Oh, right.” He nodded and pursed his lips, continuing with the act, which was just so like him. “I volunteered you to guide the deputy here through the forest. Did I not mention that I wasn't going, and that it was for a great favor for the sheriff? We need to catch some vagabond teenaged boys in the act of vandalism, and Swan here is afraid of the dark.” 

  


“Oh my God, I am not,” Emma groaned. She pressed her fingers to her forehead before opening her mouth to protest again, but Killian's frown stopped the motion. 

  


“Liam, I've never been in Storybrooke Forest before.” 

  


“So? You've got training,” Jones said, totally unconcerned. “I'm sure you'll make do. Swan knows where to find the boys. Just keep her alive and make sure she doesn't fall asleep on the job. You live for this sort of thing.” 

  


“Not the point, Brother.” Killian frowned again and crossed his arms. “This is hardly the protocol for the sheriff's department to use a guide.” Jones rolled his eyes and mimicked Killian's stance. 

  


“We can hire out as we see fit.” 

  


“She isn't dressed warmly enough.” 

  


“Hey,” she interrupted. “I have my parka.” They ignored her. 

  


“Why are you not doing it?” Killian pressed. Jones shrugged. 

  


“She lost the coin toss,” he replied, like it was obvious. 

  


“You're an utter child.” 

  


“I'll remind you of that the next time you want to flip for taking out the rubbish.” 

  


“Liam,” Killian said, sounding exasperated. Emma was enjoying it immensely. Jones shrugged, turning to face Emma. She was going to agree with Killian—Jones really was being ridiculous about it—when Jones gave her this look that infuriated her. Like he was challenging her or something. And that was what made her decide to do it, traipsing around in the forest at night be damned. 

  


“Deputy Swan,” Killian tried, turning to face her, his eyes directly locking on hers. “This is foolish, and you shouldn't allow my brother to force you into this.” 

  


“I don't allow anyone to force me into anything,” she retorted. “I can do it, no big deal.” For some reason, she didn't want him to know that the thought of hiking around in the forest at night unsettled her, but hell. He was a Marine, right? He knew how to like, build a fire? 

  


“I mean, I'm safe with you, right? You know how to like, hunt and stuff?” 

  


He raised one brow, and for some reason, it didn't annoy her as much when he did it. Not like when his brother did. It sort of enhanced his face, in a way. Made the prettiness a little dangerous. 

  


“You anticipate we'll be hunting the little miscreants?” 

  


“No, I mean, like. For food.” 

  


“You anticipate we'll need food? How long do you think we’ll be out there? Anyway, I have actual food here, Deputy.” He raised a large backpack that she hadn't noticed, tilting his head toward it. “All military-approved, I assure you. Liam texted 'fancy camping tonight?,' so that's what I'm prepared for.” He shrugged before continuing. “Staking out a clearing in a forest is essentially the same thing.” 

  


Emma didn't know about that, but something about Killian Jones reassured her, so even though her head was screaming at her that it was a Terrible Idea, she decided to go along with it. 

  


How bad could it be, right? Hanging out with a virtual (hot) stranger who happened to be related to the most irritating man in Storybrooke. In the woods. In the dark. 

  


Emma decided she would need stuff to get her through the night. 

  


As she was in the middle of compiling a list of things to bring (thermos of coffee, Starbucks VIA packets, hot cocoa packets, hand sanitizer, a blanket? Book of crossword puzzles? Did she need, like, a knife? What the hell do you take camping, anyway?), Henry showed up with his school backpack slung over his shoulder and a giant grin on his face. 

  


“Killian. You're a brave, brave man, taking on my mom like this.” 

  


“I heard that,” she called out, her eyes still on her list. 

  


“You were meant to,” Henry called back. He came over to her desk and bussed the top of her head. “Here.” He held out his backpack and when she sat up, he dumped it in her lap. “I packed your thermos. And some of those little instant coffee things from Starbucks. And some cocoa. A throw pillow. Extra beanie and socks. Some granola bars. Don't make a face, you don't want your stomach growling when you're trying to sneak up on the bad guys.” 

  


Emma scowled at the combined laughter of Henry, Killian, and Liam, muttering under her breath about men ganging up on her, but inside, she was glowing. She gave the best kid in the world a grateful smile and heartfelt thanks, giving in to the impulse to reach out and pull him into her arms for a hug. 

  


“Have fun, Ma. Oh, and Killian? Don't mind her. She's a crank in the morning, and I can't even imagine her in the morning in the middle of the woods.” 

  


“I think the boy just gave you permission to have his mother out all night, Brother.” 

  


Emma, Henry, and Killian simultaneously shouted “Liam!” at him, Henry's the only one sounding amused. Emma sounded annoyed, like always, Killian seemed outraged. Liam merely smiled serenely. 

  


Before Emma could really gather her wits about her, she found herself headed toward a beat-up old Bronco, Henry's backpack slung over her arm while she followed Killian to his car. Jones locked up the station, his hand on Henry's shoulder as they waved from across the street. 

  


“I think your brother is enjoying this way too much,” Emma grumbled as she hauled herself into the large truck. 

  


“I've no doubt he's had this planned for ages,” Killian said darkly in response. He settled in, buckling his seatbelt and jamming his keys into the ignition, but he paused and turned to look at her, his eyes still direct, still piercing as they looked into hers. “He seems to think we'd enjoy one another's company.” 

  


“Yeah, I got that,” Emma said drily. They kept looking at each other for a few moments, the silence in the car comfortable despite the fact that she knew very little about this guy she'd be spending the night with. Maybe it was because the truck smelled like coffee inside, a travel mug missing its lid in the cupholder with steam coming off the top the reason why. 

  


“Look,” she said, realizing that Killian was in the same boat as she—unwillingly dragged into the worst set-up in the world. “I have a job to do. You really don't need to come with me, I'll be just fine.” 

  


“Extra socks going to keep you alive in the big, bad forest, Swan?” he said, raising his brows. He sounded so much like the taunting Liam that she almost rolled her eyes automatically, but Killian seemed so much more charming, more interesting than her partner. 

  


“I've survived worse,” she said, surprising herself when she realized she was inadvertently revealing stuff about herself to him. She hoped he hadn't noticed. 

  


“I can tell,” he said softly. He gave her a very small, slight smile then, something almost sad and wistful, and she wondered what it was he'd survived if he could read her like that. “Strong women usually have.” 

  


“How do you know I'm strong?” she teased, settling in and breaking their eye contact. She wasn't precisely uncomfortable, but she was starting to get there, and they had a long night ahead of them. She needed to keep it impersonal, or things would go downhill fast. 

  


“Single mother who carries a gun? It's practically written on your forehead, Swan. Besides.” He finally turned the engine over, reaching to shift into gear. The large SUV rumbled to life, sounding like a monster truck and shuddering accordingly. He palmed the steering wheel and looked over his shoulder briefly before pulling out into the Main Street traffic. 

  


“You spend forty hours a week with my brother. That requires fortitude, both mental and physical. I'm amazed you're able to remain upright with what he must put you through daily.” 

  


Emma grinned and like that, they were off. 


	2. Chapter 2

“So, what's in your backpack?” he asked nonchalantly once they'd left the main thoroughfare. There wasn't exactly traffic in Storybrooke, but it wasn't a ghost town, either. People were on their way home or getting dinner, and Emma wistfully thought about her grilled cheese from earlier. Henry was always teasing her for her constant need to eat, which was rich, coming from a teenaged boy.  


“Oh, um.” Emma unzipped it, pawing through it briefly. “The usual stakeout stuff, I guess? Henry packed me some things I like to have with me. Coffee, a pillow, the crossword, more coffee. The gross granola bars, socks. Why, what do you have in your backpack?”

“Rucksack.”

“What do you have in your rucksack?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.” He chuckled, facing the road but occasionally darting his gaze over to her. She didn't know what he was looking at, but then again, she couldn't say what she was looking at, either. She was doing her best to face forward, but she found her eyes constantly straying to the side, catching him just barely taking his eyes off of her. She wondered what he was thinking about, but didn't dare ask.

“Marine survival gear, I take it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Water, MREs--”

“Water! Crap, I didn't think about water. How'm I going to make coffee?”

“My K-bar, a poncho--”

“What's a K-bar? What are MREs?”

“K-bar's a knife. Meals, ready to eat. Let's see, a bivy sack, some 550 cord.”

“Planning on going climbing later?”

“You never know, Swan. Haven't you ever heard of the six Ps?”

“No. What's a bivy sack?”

“Prior planning prevents piss poor performance. And a bivy sack is a sleeping pack; it has two sleeping bags and a waterproof cover, just in case.”

“Oh my God,” Emma breathed, looking down at her sorry-ass backpack. “I don't have a sleeping bag. Oh my God!”

“Don't worry,” he said, turning to grin at her. “It's why I have two. A marine wouldn't dare show up unprepared for every eventuality.”

“You planned on me not knowing to bring a stupid sleeping bag?”

“I didn't plan on you at all,” he said softly. She swiveled to look, this time catching him watching her intently. He smiled to break their stare-off, but she got the distinct impression that it wasn't a true smile. “I planned to be prepared,” he finally said. She rolled her eyes at him, more to dispel the sudden and weird tension in the truck than anything. Then he gave her a smug smile in response. She kind of hated it, kind of really liked it.

Emma directed him to a likely spot, sort of near where she and Jones had parked earlier. She hopped down from the truck, slamming the door and shrugging into Henry's backpack. The other Jones came around, pulling his arms through his rucksack and fishing around in his pocket. He produced a beanie and pulled it over his head, frowning slightly when he met Emma's eye.

“You gonna be warm enough, love?”

“Yeah, this coat's pretty thick.”

“That may be,” he said, turning to step off the road. “But it feels like rain to me.”

“You can sense it coming?” she asked skeptically, nearly tripping on a log in the fading light of the setting sun.

“Spent a lot of time outside, love. I can definitely smell it coming.”

“Great.” Emma pulled a small Mag-Lite from her pocket and flicked it on, hoping they'd find the stupid little shits causing havoc in the forest before it actually started to rain.

It took a good twenty minutes to reach where they'd found Gordie, the tree looking even sadder and slightly more ominous where it had fallen. Emma took the opportunity to sit on it, huffing slightly and worrying that she needed to work out more. Killian didn't seem to have broken a sweat; she supposed that was his training, or whatever. He seemed fit, anyway, dropping his rucksack and hunkering down to dig inside of it. He pulled out a metal water bottle and took a swig from it, offering it to Emma with raised eyebrows. After a slight moment of hesitation she took it, gulping the water and feeling really glad that he was way better at this than she was.

“I hope you've had all your shots,” she said as she handed the water back to him. He took another swallow and smirked, saluting her with the bottle before capping it and shoving it back into his bag.

“And then some,” he said. “Marines are filthy creatures; they give us all sorts of shots when we join up.”

“I thought it was sailors who were the dirty ones.”

“Aye. We're the ones who defend the candy-ass sailors like my brother.”

“He told me to remind you that the Marines are technically a part of the navy.”

Killian laughed; it was disconcerting how she could see his eyes flash in the darkness of the forest. The sun had set by then; she wondered how well they'd be able to find a clearing in the middle of the forest in the total dark. Suddenly, it seemed very stupid to her, being out in the middle of nowhere with a man she'd only met an hour before.

“Aye, he does love to bedevil me.”

“He's kind of an ass, isn't he?”

“He's the best man I know.”

The utter conviction with which he said it almost surprised Emma; her general impression of Killian Jones so far was that he was quiet and strong, kind of flirty, kind of serious. Now he seemed fierce and loyal, too. He seemed capable, though, and right now, that's the only thing she needed him to be.

“I think it's this way,” she said, realizing they'd both been quiet and it hadn't seemed weird. Maybe she should have been uncomfortable with how comfortable it was, being alone with a strange and attractive man, neither of them speaking much, but it wasn't. Not at all.

Somewhere in the back of her mind an alarm started going off, but she ignored it because she had to. Instead, she stood, brushing at her thighs and sighing heavily.

“All right. Break time's over.”

“Lead the way, love.”

About fifteen minutes later, Emma was struggling. The straps of the backpack were digging into her shoulders, and she was getting damned tired of stepping over logs and tripping on tree roots. She was also getting really cold, but she didn't want to admit to that, especially considering how Killian had made a point of asking her whether she'd be warm enough. He didn't seem any the worse for wear, his breathing even when he spoke. Emma was having trouble keeping her chest from heaving when she wasn't even talking, and she noticed that she could see her breath, it was so cold.

“Out of curiosity,” he began, cutting into the silence. He held out his hand to help her over a log but she ignored it, determined to at least make it on her own without falling on her face once. He chuckled before continuing. “When we find these boys, what are we supposed to do with them?”

“Put the fear of God into them, I don't know,” she said, but then she paused as a heavy feeling settled in her gut. “Oh my God, I don't know. Ugh, this is so _pointless_!” She stopped fully, huffing and putting her hands on her hips. “How does Liam talk me into this shit? Did he ever tell you about the time we had to break up a Super Bowl Party and had to arrest more drunks than we had cells for? Yeah, he was the one who insisted we extend the long arm of the law into Leroy's house, laughing when I reminded him we only have four pairs of handcuffs between the two of us. David had been on vacation then, otherwise he might have prevented me from being goaded when your brother suggested that I might be afraid of facing off with men half my size.” Emma felt her face light on fire when she realized Killian was laughing at her. “Hey, not funny!”

“It's a _little_ funny, Swan,” he said, immediately stopping though she could still hear traces of laughter in his voice. “Only in the sense that my brother has an uncanny ability to get people to follow him in whatever he does. He tends to go in half-cocked, not thinking about the consequences. Honestly, I'm amazed he isn't dead.”

“I'm amazed his men didn't kill him when he served.”

“Actually, he received several commendations.”

She grunted in response, hating to admit that she was slightly more impressed with her coworker than she ever thought she'd be. Commendations, huh?

“What the hell is he doing being a deputy in a small burg like Storybrooke?”

When Killian didn't respond right away, Emma turned to look at him. He seemed grim, and she immediately felt guilty for asking, though she couldn’t explain to herself why.

“He wished for a simpler life. He followed orders, almost to his detriment,” he said after a while. “We served on the same ship. Did he tell you that? Anyway, I almost managed to convince him to defy the orders, but everything turned out well in the end. Nearly got a dishonorable discharge for it, too. We both lucked out.” Emma wanted to ask for more of the story, but she didn't think it was her place to do so. But it explained a few things about Liam, like why he was such a reliable guy. _Ugh, am I starting to like him now?_ she thought to herself.

“As for me, I decided my time with the military was up after that little incident, and so did my brother. I finished out my time and just... sort of wandered a bit. Until Liam convinced me to come to Maine, and now I'm here in the forest with the loveliest lass I've seen in quite some time. Can't say's I regret my choices.” Emma was so lost in wondering about Liam that she almost missed the light flirtation in his voice, but only almost.

“All right, pal. Let's keep going.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, grinning and stepping away. He pulled out a compass and pointed toward the left. “North's that way.”

Another twenty minutes later and they still hadn't found the clearing, but Emma was getting tired. She was desperate for a break but didn't want to stop; she simply kept plodding along behind Killian, hating him for not seeming at all winded and hating his brother more. She was so absorbed in watching the backs of his feet to keep herself focused on something so she wouldn't just stop and take a nap right there on the forest floor that she bumped right into his back.

“Do you hear that?” he said so quietly that she almost didn't hear him.

“No?”

“Listen.” Emma huffed, stopping and trying to listen, but all she heard was... and then she heard it. A loud bark of laughter followed by chattering.

“Fucking finally,” she breathed, grinning when Jones chuckled.

“So, what's the plan?” he asked, his voice still low. Emma came up beside him, biting her lip because... she hadn't really thought it through. None of them had. Stupid, going off like this.

“Um, well--”

“Might I suggest we record them and see if they make mention of wrong-doing? That way, if we lose them or there are simply too many, you will at least have proof for...whatever it is you law-makers need to arrest them or speak with their parents?”

Emma was mesmerized. By his voice, by the assured-ness in his expression. There was something of quiet authority in the voice of Killian Jones—a confidence that was extremely appealing, and she had to shake herself slightly so that she didn't lose sight of what they were doing. Maybe it was that she was so tired from walking, maybe she was just over the whole forest, but Killian was starting to look good to her. Like, not just in the “so handsome I forgot my own name” kind of way.

She nodded, more to break herself from the temporary spell than anything, but she pulled out her phone, swiping for the voice recorder and creeping forward to see if she could see the little hoodlums at play.

She had to end up crawling a little, wanting to avoid being noticed, silently cursing at the stupid sticks and other forest detritus underneath her body. She could see a glow ahead—a fire—and she stopped when she got close, the boys' voices clear as day.

She recognized Felix's lazy drawl immediately—the little shit was telling some story, his voice loud and smug as he did his best to impress the other little shits around the fire. Emma thought there were maybe four of them, and she realized with a sinking feeling in her belly that there was no way she was going to be able to nab all of them. Sighing silently, she thumbed the record button, hoping they said something incriminating.

“...and so we'll hit the mayor's house tomorrow. This forest bores me now,” he was saying, and Emma felt a surge of giddiness. _Gotcha, you little fuck._ “T.P. only, and we'll move onto hot dogging the night after.” _Hot dogging?_

“What next, Felix?”

Emma smiled with satisfaction, because now his name was on the recording. She looked over at Killian and gave him a big grin; she faltered a little when he didn't seem as overjoyed as she felt, his eyes looking at her with that intensity again. Did he not get the significance? Felix was just named on the recording. As long as it was audible, they had him. But no, Killian kept staring at her, his unblinking gaze breaking when she stopped smiling.

Shaking herself, Emma turned back to her phone, putting it forward a little to catch every word. The boys went on for another few minutes, continuing to dig their own graves. Mentions of cutting the trees down, the graffiti on Gold's shop, even letting out the air in some tires (which she hadn't connected to them)--the miscreants just kept going. Emma was starting to think she had enough to nail them, so she turned back to Killian to see how he felt about confronting them (though how she would do so without making noise, she wasn't sure), when there was a loud cracking sound.

It wasn't a tree this time. It was the sound of the heavens opening up and pouring down. Right on top of them.

Several things happened at once. Water trickled down Emma's neck. Killian sighed heavily. The sound of yelping, and the sizzle of a fire going out. A mad scramble and cursing as the boys dashed for cover. Problem was—they ran straight for Emma and Killian.

“Oh shit, the sheriff!” one of them yelled as they were spotted. Emma scrambled up to give chase, but in her haste to do so, she ended up tripping on a branch in the dark.

“Fuck!”

She put her arms out; she didn't quite fall, but she did land hard, right on her hands and knees, inadvertently twisting a little on the landing.

She tried to get up and felt a sharp stab in her ankle.

“Ow,” she whispered. Killian was immediately at her elbow. Amidst the angry pattering of rain, she heard the fading sounds of boys running somewhere behind them.

“Swan, are you hurt?” She almost didn't hear the anger in Killian's voice, the throbbing in her ankle was so bad.

“Yeah,” she moaned. “Fuck. Fuck, we totally had them!”

“I'll argue that later,” he said, still sounding angry but also a little bit amused. “Right now, we need to see about your ankle. Shall I carry you?”

“I can take care of myself,” she muttered, totally mad at herself for tripping. After hobbling two steps, however, Emma realized she wasn't going to make it. She stumbled, whimpering at the renewed shock of pain going up her leg, even as cold rain started soaking the part of her sweater where the coat was unbuttoned.

“All right, Swan,” Killian said. His voice had lost that hard edge of controlled anger; he now sounded soft and soothing, and while she really didn't want to have to rely on him, she had to admit—she could definitely use a little help.

“Lean on me,” he said urgently, coming up and resting his arm across her back, his hand warm and reassuring at her waist as he guided her to standing fully. Gratefully, Emma put her arm around his shoulder and sort of hop-limped, allowing him to take the lead. He directed her to a less-open area, somewhat close to the still-steaming bonfire from the delinquent boys but protected by the trees. Emma was grateful to not be getting as wet as she had been, but water was still dripping down her face.

“I'm so happy you were right about the rain,” she deadpanned. Killian laughed dryly, no real humor in the sound. She should have been annoyed, but instead, she was glad that he was there.

“Believe me. It could be worse.”

“How?” she said, exasperated. He brought her over to a tree and let go of her waist; she leaned against the rough bark, immediately missing the warmth of his body, but only because it was damned cold. No other reason.

None.

“Could be colder,” he said, grinning and sort of blinking at her mischievously.

“Wow, you suck at winking.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, sounding offended. But his smile remained, and she felt new warmth trickling inside. He had such a good smile. She was doomed.

“Fucking fantastic,” Emma muttered.

“It’s not that bad,” he said blithely. Here,” He pulled the beanie off his head and shoved it at her, nodding with encouragement when she hesitated in putting it over her own soggy head. “Go ahead. Put it on.”

“What about you?”

“I'll be fine, love. You're the one who isn't layered properly. It would be bad form for me to drag you back home, soaked and shivering to the bone, now, wouldn't it? Put it on, keep yourself from getting too wet.”

His chivalry had logic, so she sighed and pulled it on, nearly groaning at the wonderful warmth now covering her head. Over the smell of wet green things, she could smell whatever shampoo and product it was he used and smiled. She looked over and eyed his dishevelment, smiling as he unconsciously ran his hand through his hair, the movement doing nothing for the messy disarray. Then she sighed, wondering what the next step was going to be. She couldn't exactly hobble home over slippery underbrush in the pouring rain in the dark. But it's not like they could make camp and wait the storm out right there, right?

Killian looked around without moving his body, his eyes assessing the trees or whatever around them. Emma didn't know what he saw but knew the moment he saw it; his gaze took on a hard gleam of triumph and his jaw clenched a couple of times. He hopped up and reached into his back pocket, producing a multi-tool and flipping out the knife.

“What're you doing?”

“Fashioning cover,” was his cryptic response. Emma somehow knew that if she kept asking questions she'd keep getting two-word answers, so she simply leaned back and tried to ignore the throbbing in her ankle.

After about five minutes of watching him saw at a tree branch and carry it over, she realized what he was doing.

“You're making a tent?”

“Not exactly, love.” He opened his rucksack and started pulling stuff out. Emma gave up on trying to figure out the survivalist enigma that was Killian Jones and simply watched, her curiosity piqued and her interest in him intensifying by a hundredfold.

In less than ten minutes, he'd managed to make a sort-of tent using the sawed-off branch and some stuff in his bag. He'd cleared away a bunch of damp pine needles in a spot between two trees, leaving a still-dry patch of earth underneath the cover. Then he unrolled two sleeping bags (thank God he had two, she didn't know what she'd do if she had to sleep on the ground, and she ignored her mind insisting that there was no way he'd let her do that and would probably insist she take the warmth) and turned to face her, a grim expression on his face.

“Afraid we're going to have to make a go of it for the night, Swan. At least until it ceases raining. Even I wouldn't want to carry you in the dark during a downpour in an unknown forest.”

“Gosh, to hear Liam tell it, you should be able to do that blind with both arms tied behind your back.”

“Only if the cargo wasn't so precious,” he grinned. It was so cheesy, but for some reason, it made her feel a lot warmer than should have been possible. “Now, let's get you comfortable.”

As he approached, looking like he was trying to figure out how to get her to the tent, she began to have doubts. She eyed the tent and sleeping bags and then her booted foot skeptically, not wanting to dirty his stuff but not wanting to go through the pain of removing her boots. Fortunately (or unfortunately), Killian removed the decision from her. He put his hands around her waist, lifting her easily and swinging her around before she could so much as protest, which she had no intention of doing. He kept his eyes on hers the few steps over to the tent, neither of them speaking, both of them watching the other. For her part, Emma thought it was possibly the hottest thing that had ever happened to her--his quiet strength, the way it didn’t feel like a come-on or some blatant display of manliness. Just a good guy, doing the right thing.

He released her, turning quickly, and she wondered if he was similarly affected, or whether it was just her.

“We need to get you out of your wet clothing, love.”

“Wow. We just met,” she said dryly, but it was more to brace herself against whatever he’d throw at her next than anything. 

“And those boots need to come off,” he replied, ignoring her obvious attempt to sarcasm herself out of an uncomfortable situation.

“Won't it be harder to get back on? Won't like, my ankle swell, or something?”

“It will swell now, cutting off your circulation and making the pain nigh on unbearable,” he replied. “And while I've got aspirin in my med-kit, I'm afraid that won't take the edge off very well. This, however, will.” He was gathering sticks as he spoke, discarding some and grunting in approval at others before reaching into his coat and pulling something out. “Heads up, Swan.” He tossed it at her and she barely caught it, chuckling with amazement and appreciation. A flask. Marines really were prepared for every eventuality.

She uncapped it and took several swigs, recognizing the sweetness of rum and smiling, loving the warmth and looking forward to the painkilling. Recapping it, she tossed it back to him and he caught it neatly, pocketing it without breaking his stride as he continued to approve or disapprove of the branches littering the ground. Emma liked watching him work; he was so efficient, so economical in his movements, but there was a grace to him—a manly, attractive grace. Out of nowhere, she remembered Henry saying he had ink, and she wondered what he'd look like lifting things in a tight shirt. Maybe his tattoos were on his arms. _Oh, lord help me._

“What're you doing now?” she asked, needing to focus on something else, _anything_ else.

“We'll be wanting a fire, don't you think?” he said, thankfully not noticing that she was suddenly ( _suddenly_?) lusting after him. “You'd best work on getting out of those wet clothes. I've an extra shirt and sweater in my pack; change into them and see if you can get your boots off, else I'll help you. Oh, and Swan?” He stood up straight and turned, aiming a pretty devastating grin her way. “Pants off, too. Slip into the sleeping bag. I promise not to look. Unless you want me to.” Then he turned back around, leaving Emma a little affronted and a lot stunned.

How...dare he?

But as she tentatively reached for his backpack (rucksack, whatever), she had to acknowledge that he was right. It was getting colder and the rain was getting louder; she realized her teeth were chattering from a mixture of cold and pain and tired, and she needed to get warm quickly. She winced as she bent at the knee, managing not to put any weight on her busted ankle but just barely. Luckily, his rucksack thing was enormous, so it didn’t take too much effort on her part to get to it.

She found a plain dark grey t-shirt and light grey sweatshirt neatly rolled together with a pair of socks near the top of the bag; she smiled, wondering if he’d placed the clothes near the top after Macguyvering the tent, knowing she’d have to find them and not wanting her to be inconvenienced. She barely knew him, but it seemed like something he’d do. Pawing past some rectangular brown packages, she pulled the clothes out and unraveled them, leaving the socks inside. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure his back was still facing her before quickly peeling out of her own soggy stuff, including his beanie, and shrugging into his shirt and sweater.

They smelled _really_ good.

“What should I do with the wet things?”

“I'll dry them here once I get the fire going,” he said, his back still turned. It was a relief being dry; she hadn't noticed how wet the front of her really was, the downpour so strong it had soaked down the opening of her coat. And her hair was an utter disaster.

The boots presented a problem, however; it hurt to even move her foot much less try to lean across the length of her legs to untie them. She knew that was going to suck; making a couple of sad attempts to lean down followed by even sadder attempts at trying to sit, Emma sighed and closed her eyes briefly before fixing them intently on the strong and capable back of Killian Jones.

“Um, Killian? You can turn around now.”

“Yes?” She noticed that he'd actually managed to get a fire going, despite the fact that it was monsooning around them. He'd picked a decent spot, she supposed, the tree cover enough to keep most of the rain at bay, but it seemed like a miracle to her that he could create fire when it felt like there was a flood coming.

“I think I might need some help.” She hated how breathless she sounded, how helpless she felt. David (and Liam) were forever nagging at her to call for backup, whether it was work-related or not, but for once, she didn't mind actually doing it. There was something comforting in the assured attitude of Killian Jones, like she knew that he wouldn't make fun of her or think less of her just because she needed the help. And that was why she asked.

With nothing more than a smile, he tossed the sticks he was holding into the fire, the pops and crackles giving him a soothing soundtrack as he came forward a few feet, stopping just short of actually touching her with his body. Then he dropped down to his knees and peered up at her, his smile reassuring (and still kind of devastating) before he frowned and turned his focus to her feet. Almost against her will, Emma watched, mesmerized once again, as he untied and picked at the laces on her boot, careful not to jostle her ankle as he worked. 

“Did that hurt?” he asked softly, looking up at her, his expression solemn.

“Not at all,” she returned, wondering at her own breathlessness.

“We need to get you seated,” he said, his voice still soft and soothing. Emma could only nod, her eyes following his movements as he stood. He was so close that she could feel heat radiating off his body, a sort of intense wet heat. Like, any hotter and steam would be curling between their two bodies hot. Anyone else, and she would have taken a step back or even pushed them away, but with Killian, she felt no urge to do so.

After a moment, he stepped away, coming around behind her until she swore she could feel his heat at her back. She chewed on her lip, wondering what it was he wanted her to do. She felt in that moment that whatever it was, she would be the most willing participant of all time.

“What are you doing?” she asked, more curious than anything, but she winced, knowing she sounded a little harsh, a little demanding. A little bit like a woman of the law.

“Try a little something, Swan,” he laughed from behind her. Then his voice and his warm breath were right at her ear as he wrapped an arm around her waist. 

“It’s called trust.”

He leaned down a bit, his other arm sliding down the backs of her thighs and stopping right behind her knees at the same time he dipped her backward. The funny thing was--she did trust him. Never for one second did she feel like he would drop her, or that he’d hurt her, or make it worse. 

In no time at all Emma was seated on one of the sleeping bags, Killian’s warm touch gone as he walked over to her feet once again. She kind of missed the warmth, but she’d die before she’d say something like that out loud. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself, wondering what what would happen next. _Dying_ to know what would happen next.

He didn’t look at her, instead focusing on her boots. He reached for her already loosened laces, pulling carefully and managing not to jostle her injured foot in the process. When he had the laces loose enough, he wrapped one hand above her injured ankle, the other at the heel of her boot. Emma could feel the warmth of his hand through her pants, and she really wished she could think of a good excuse for him to keep touching her. He looked up once again, raising a brow in question, probably because her mouth was open.

“All right, there, Swan?”

She nodded slowly, her mouth still open.

“On the count of three, then. One, two--”

She held her breath, tensing her knee on his “three.” He quickly slid her boot off, and though he was gentle, she still felt a new stab of pain race up her leg. Trying to keep from crying out, she pitched backward a little, throwing her hands out and bracing herself on her arms.

“Hold still,” he said softly as she met his eyes. “I've got you.” She found herself caught in his steady gaze again, his eyes flashing in the dimness of the forest. She focused on that flash, imagining how blue his eyes were, wondering if in the light of day they'd be as intense as she remembered.

She realized he was slowly rubbing her ankle, gently turning it this way and that. She winced—more of an anticipated reaction than anything, because it actually felt good—but he stopped immediately, his brow drawing down as his entire body stilled.

“I've hurt you.”

“No, no,” she protested, feeling slightly ridiculous and regretting the loss of his soothing touch. “No,” she repeated, clearing her throat. “It, uh. Felt really good, actually.”

“Shall I continue?”

“I--” _Yes, God, please_. “No, I'll be okay.” He didn't let go of her ankle, though, and she didn't let go of his gaze.

They just kept looking at each other, the rain pattering around them but not on them, and Emma started to realize this might just turn out to be the longest night of her damned _life_.

“All right. I'm going to unlace the other.” Quick as a flash, he had her other boot off, setting the pair neatly next to his rucksack. She smiled at him when he leaned back, his face alight with satisfaction.

“Not so bad, right?”

“No,” she said softly. “Not bad at all.”

“Now about those pants,” he said, quirking his mouth into a half-smile. She huffed, shaking her head, hoping that it was too dark and that the firelight wasn’t enough for him to see the delight she could feel beaming out of her eyes.

“Nice try,” she told him. He got to his feet, looking down at her seriously before speaking again.

“Your pants are wet. You won't be doing yourself any favors getting into the sleeping bag with wet pants, Swan. Peel them off and get in. You need to stay warm.” Emma wanted to holler at him for practically commanding her to strip, but she didn't. She knew he was right. Sighing, she waited until he had his back turned, wishing he wasn't as much of a gentleman as he seemed to be. She didn't think she'd mind it too much if he sneaked a peek.

Of course, he did no such thing. Emma sighed, checking out the makeshift tent now that she was under it. By now, she wasn't surprised at how well it worked; she could see and hear rain pattering on the cover, but it remained nice and dry inside. She unbuttoned her jeans and laid back, shimmying out of them as best she could without moving her ankle too much. She felt awkward, but she somehow managed to get her pants off with minimal fuss. She leaned over and grabbed Henry's backpack; unzipping and reaching in, she pulled out the throw pillow and extra socks her kid had stuffed into the bottom. She tossed the pillow at the sleeping bag she wasn’t sitting on, hoping Killian had no preference and figuring it would be easier to get into that one if she just rolled over a little bit. Yanking her kind of damp socks off, she managed to get the clean ones on without too much pain, then shifted to regard the other sleeping bag. She unzipped it carefully and took a deep breath; bracing for the movement, Emma quickly slipped inside, her ankle complaining only slightly as she sighed heavily at the warm flannel insides underneath her bare skin.

She hadn't realized how damned cold she was, not until she had herself tucked in. The sleeping bag itself was kind of big; she figured it was made for someone more of Liam's size, so she kind of surrendered herself to the warmth, rolling and scooting around until she was burritoed as best as she could manage. When she was surprisingly comfortable, she rolled onto her stomach and lifted up onto her elbows so she could regard the quiet man directly across from her.

He'd somehow managed to build them a roaring fire, the wood snapping and crackling merrily and making it seem almost cozy. Emma pulled the pillow over, stuck it between her arms, then folded her hands over it, laying her head down and resting her chin on top of her hands. She watched him work; there was _definitely_ something soothing in the methodical way in which he moved, like he was conserving energy with each purposeful movement.

He came over at one point, offering a brief smile before grabbing her pants and socks and walking back to the fire. The rain had subsided somewhat, the soft pattering and occasional fat plop hitting the tent the only indication that it was still storming outside. 

Killian finished laying her clothes out across a rock near the fire, then approached their makeshift tent again. He smirked at her this time before leaning down to dig into his rucksack; he pulled out one of the brown rectangular packages and his water bottle, and she tried to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. Whatever it was, she trusted it; it hit her then, that out of every single person in Storybrooke, the one to get stuck with in a torrential downpour at night in the middle of the woods just might be Killian Jones, and she was suddenly extremely grateful that he was there.

Which would mean she'd have to thank Liam for it later. Ugh.

She remembered then that she’d asked Liam to check in on her kid, so she pulled out her phone to text Henry, to make sure he was okay, but there was no signal. Frowning at her phone she huffed and tapped at it before setting it aside for later.

“Everything all right?”

“No signal.”

“I’m sure Henry is fine. He’s a smart one, that lad of yours. Very independent and capable.”

Emma smiled, glowing a little on the inside, both at the compliment and that he instantly knew what was bothering her. Killian Jones seemed able to read her pretty well--something most people (no one, in fact) couldn’t do after knowing her a day. She shook her head, deciding not to dwell on it. Instead, she focused on the present, on what he was doing at the moment.

“What're you doing?” she asked. She yawned, her jaw cracking as she opened wide. Warm and snuggly, Emma realized she might actually fall asleep in the middle of the fucking forest.

“Meal, ready to eat,” Killian said. Emma watched, fascinated that this man seemed to be full of surprises. He ripped the top off the brown package and poured water into it, hunkering down next to the other sleeping bag and setting the package next to it carefully. “The water heats it up.” Skeptical, Emma raised her eyebrow and looked at him through bleary eyes. “No, really. This is how soldiers eat in the field. This one's the beef stew, though I've a preference for the spaghetti. Liam ate all of those last week when he was mad at me, so we'll have to settle for the stew.”

“Quit talking about food,” Emma groaned, her stomach grumbling as she thought about it. No way food cooked with water was going to be any good, but her only other option was a granola bar. Henry loved the things, but the only reason she even considered them real food was because of the chocolate chips. She didn't think that even chocolate would save her, and the thought of spaghetti or beef stew or anything warm made her want to cry.

“I think you'll be pleasantly surprised, Swan,” he said, standing and unzipping his coat. He walked over to toss it across their drying rock, continuing to speak as he turned to face her. “So, how fares your ankle?” He was wearing a flannel beneath the coat and she watched him unbutton it in that same efficient manner in which he seemed to do everything.

“It's...fine,” she said, trying super hard not to stare and failing spectacularly. He shrugged out of his flannel, revealing another t-shirt like the one she was currently wearing. She wondered if it smelled the same, or whether it smelled stronger. Warmer. Killian-er.

“I'll bind it for the return trip,” he was saying, but she wasn't really paying attention. He lifted one arm and that's when she saw it, the light from the fire illuminating some ink on his forearm. A tattoo. He reached behind his head and in one neat movement, he pulled his shirt off.

“...and hopefully, the swelling will have gone down by then, and we can...”

He had more ink, on both arms. She thought she saw a heart and dagger, and maybe a compass rose. Some words in block print, though she couldn't make them out. She wondered if he had more anywhere else interesting, but she couldn't see him clearly, due to a combination of the flickering firelight behind him, the night surrounding them, and the dark hair across his chest. She silently begged him to turn around so she could see if there was anything on his back.

Instead, he tossed his shirt next to her drying stuff before popping the button on his jeans; when he stopped moving, it took her a moment to look up at his face. He was smirking at her, his hands paused at his waistband.

“Dinner and a show, is it? Perhaps Liam really was successful in getting us to go on a date.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, feeling her face heat up. She rolled over and gave into the sudden need to bury her head, burrowing down into the sleeping bag and hoping she'd just fall asleep and wake up back in her own bed.

Her stomach grumbled again; Killian chuckled, and then she felt a tap on her head through the sleeping bag.

“Swan? Dinner is served.”

 _Food_.

Emma poked her head out, her nearly-dried hair a mess over her face. She sniffed suspiciously; all she could smell was faint ozone and rich pine, more pungent now as the rain started up again.

Killian was sitting on his knees on the other sleeping bag; he'd taken off his boots and pants but kept his socks on. He'd put on another shirt (seriously, how much stuff was in that magical Hermione bag of his?) and seemed unbothered by the chilly air. Still, the sight of his bare legs made her shiver.

“Gees, aren't you cold?”

“It's merely bracing. Here.” He held out the MRE with one hand and a spoon with the other, wiggling both enticingly. Sighing, Emma unbunched the sleeping bag around her and unzipped it a little, trying to stay cocooned in its warmth while sitting up and turning to face him. She tried to cross her legs and winced, forgetting about her ankle, but it wasn't as bad as before.

“Careful, love,” he said softly. She looked up and he was doing it again, looking at her intently. The flames from the fire lit the side of his face so that one eye caught the glow while the other was cast in shadow. It was incredibly appealing.

When she realized she'd been staring at him again, she breathed in through her nose and smiled, reaching for the beef stew and the spoon. And nearly dropped both.

“It's hot!”

“I told you,” he chuckled. He leaned forward, taking the food and giving her a lopsided grin. “I'll hold it. Go ahead, take a bite.” She didn't move and he sighed. “Swan. You _can_ trust me.” Still skeptical about food cooked with cold water in a bag, Emma decided to do just that. So, she took another deep breath and dipped the spoon in, lifting it and eying it suspiciously, as if it were provided by Liam.

Then she pictured him taunting her with it, and decided to just go for it.

“What the hell,” she muttered, sticking the heaping spoonful of brown into her mouth.

It was...

“How is it?”

She finished chewing, looking thoughtful as she did so, though her insides were yelling for more.

“Pretty fucking good, actually.”

“Told you,” he said smugly, sitting back a little. Problem was, that took the food away, and Emma had to lean forward herself to reach it.

“Don't be greedy, Swan. My turn.”

“Get your own spoon.”

“That _is_ my spoon. You were unprepared, remember?”

His voice was light and teasing and warm as it washed over her. It amazed her, how comfortable she was despite the fact that she was in the middle of the rainy fucking forest with a strange and handsome man, and neither of them were wearing pants.

“Here,” she said, licking the corners of her mouth for any gravy that may have escaped. She shoved the spoon at him, suddenly wary and aware of their situation. She really didn't know him, not at all. And she'd taken his spoon.

He took it from her, his face showing that he was instantly on the defensive, like he'd picked up on her tone. She hated it, that thing about her that made people do that. It had taken her almost three months to feel comfortable with Jones' and David's banter enough to join in, and it had taken longer until she started to talk about herself. She hadn't even let Henry linger at the station too long in the beginning, constantly on the guard over herself and her kid, despite the fact that her internal creep-o-meter never pinged around either David or Liam.

Or Killian, for that matter.

She looked up, watching Killian take a large bite of the beef stew and feeling sorry for clamming up around him. So far, he'd proved that not only was he a good man in a storm, literally, but he was a gentleman. Even if he was sitting in front of her without pants.

So, Emma did something she had only ever done one time in her life. She decided to let her guard down around a man.

And she knew that this one was _nothing_ like Neal.

Without speaking, she caught his eye, reaching out for the spoon. He handed it over wordlessly, his eyes on hers as she took another bite. As she chewed, she dipped in for another spoonful, only this time—she offered it to him. He smiled slightly, leaning his head forward to close his lips around the stew and pulling away carefully, still keeping the eye contact.

She took another bite, and another, then left the spoon in the bag and reached for the metal water bottle at his feet.

“May I?”

He nodded, watching her every movement and not taking another bite. She uncapped the bottle and took a large swig, grateful once again that he'd thought to bring water in the first place. Both the bottle and the water were cold, and it made her shiver.

“Aye, I'm starting to feel the cold as well,” Killian said. Emma handed him the bottle and laid back down, scooting around and trying to get as comfortable as possible. She zipped up the bag as far as it would go and bunched the ends around her head in an attempt to keep the cold out. Now that she had something in her stomach and she was getting back to being warm, she knew she'd be able to sleep. She could feel it coming—the weariness of the day and the anxiety of their situation easing as her muscles settled down—she was actually going to be able to sleep in the stupid forest during a rainstorm.

She closed her eyes and listened to Killian getting comfortable, listening to him settle down as he got into his sleeping bag right next to her. The sound of his bag's zipper being pulled made her smile lazily, the brief rent in the air somehow soothing as she felt her breaths starting to slow.

“Fuck.”

“What now,” she sighed, turning and peeking over at him from deep within her warm cocoon.

“ _Fuck_.” She heard the zipper again, followed by the weird, angry sound of a zipper gone awry. Then a terrible ripping sound.

“Damn,” he muttered furiously. “Idiot, Jones. Just sublime. Check and recheck, you didn't check and recheck.”

“Killian, what is it?” Emma asked, much more awake now. She felt a sinking feeling, knowing what he was going to tell her and feeling like shit because of it.

“Zipper's broken. It's fine,” he said, sounding pissed. She was glad he wasn't pissed at her, because he sounded so threatening that she felt a thrill deep down inside that primal area reserved for dangerous situations, only it was a good kind of thrill.

“We can--” she offered, not knowing how to finish the thought but wanting to help.

“I'll be fine,” he said, his voice resigned with finality. “It's not that cold.”

“Jones,” she said, laughing slightly because when she said it, it was with the exact same exasperation as when she said it to his brother. “It's fucking freezing. Please don't freeze to death, I don't know how I'll get out of here without you.”

“It's hardly cold enough to freeze me,” he scoffed, shuffling around and grunting as he moved. She peeked over at him again and saw his brows drawn down low. “I told you, I'll be fine. Sleep. We'll leave as soon as it stops raining.”

“Okay,” she said, and then, “Night, Killian.”

“Good night, Emma.”

The soft way he said her name was practically a lullaby, making Emma smile as her eyes drifted shut. She felt warm—both in body and toward the man who was lying next to her, and she told herself as she started to drift that she would need to thank him somehow for everything he'd done.

The sound of the rain grew more intense, wind whipping the trees around outside and sounding even more ominous. It was loud enough to keep her in a state of almost-awake; not quite soothing like rain usually is, but not scary enough to make her pop her eyes open. Instead, she focused on the faint crackling from the fire behind them, evening out her breathing and feeling her body buzz as it settled down.

Just as she was drifting off, she felt Killian shifting, his sleeping bag knocking into hers. Forgivable; she breathed deep, trying to focus again, but that's when she heard it.

Chattering. His teeth. They were _chattering_.

He was _cold_.

“Jones,” she ground out, a little surprised at how raspy her voice sounded. “You okay?”

“I'm fine, lass. Get some sleep.” He managed to say it without his teeth chattering, but she could still hear strain in his voice. The manly strain of a man trying to be manly. Fucking ridiculous.

She settled in once more, but he was moving around, probably trying to like, create friction to stay warm. Sighing and telling herself she was doing it so he'd stop making noise and she could get some sleep, Emma let her annoyance at the man fly.

“Oh, for crying out loud. Just join me in here so you don't freeze to death.”

Her eyes popped open; had she really just said that?

Killian didn't respond right away. The rain had temporarily stopped, and the only things she heard were the snapping of the fire and his quickly indrawn breath.

“I couldn't possibly--”

“You could and should.”

“Your ankle--”

“Doesn't hurt anymore, actually.”

“But--”

“Jones,” she sighed. She reached over and unzipped her sleeping bag before scooting over as far as she could to the other side. “Just get in here. We're adults. I trust you.” The only thing more surprising to her than what she was offering was how true the last part was. She _did_ trust him.

After a moment's hesitation, she heard him sigh heavily. Then he shuffled, then another sigh.

“Swan. Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

A few seconds later, she felt a blast of unholy cold whip over her, making her legs break out in gooseflesh.

“Oh my—hurry up, hurry up!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered.

And then, just like that, he was sliding in next to her.

There was the sound of the zipper being pulled shut and more shuffling and leg-bumping and separate decisions on which side was better to lie on, but eventually, they were facing each other, Emma's pillow between their heads and their knees knocking. The rest of their bodies were pulled as far away from each other as possible, which was kind of ridiculous, but Emma sensed that they both needed that. It was too close, too warm; too wonderful.

“I hope you don't snore,” she finally said, and she felt the puff of his laughter dance across her face.

“It's been awhile since anyone has been in a position to let me know,” he said.

“Yeah. Me, too,” she told him. She smiled before resting her hands beneath her cheek, one on the other, imagining she could see his features across the pillow. All she could make out was his hair, messy and catching stray bits of the firelight behind them.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Emma awoke to the obnoxiously cheerful sound of birds chirping.

She scrunched her eyes, willing herself to fall back asleep, but an intense warmth on the side of her face made her pop her eyes open. 

An arm--a man’s arm--was under her head. She was staring at dull red ink, and as her eyes focused on the dagger and the name _Milah_ etched into skin, she remembered where she was.

“Morning, Swan,” Killian murmured, his voice very close to her face. As she was wondering what became of the pillow that she’d purposefully set between them, she felt it at her back, wondering if she’d done that in her sleep or whether it had migrated naturally. Brushing away that thought, she looked over at the sleep-mussed face of Killian Jones, and she felt an involuntary smile curl her lips.

“Hey,” she said softly. 

“I didn’t wish to wake you, you were snoring that peacefully,” he said, a tease in his scratchy voice.

“I don’t snore,” she informed him, yawning huge and covering her mouth with her hand.

“I assure you, Swan. You do. Don’t worry, it’s quite adorable,” he told her, his mouth quirking at the corners. She reached out and shoved at his shoulder, really enjoying the chuckle she could practically feel rumbling around in his chest.

“Hey, don’t injure my arm. I won’t be able to carry you home.”

“I’ll manage,” she said dryly, stretching out her toes and testing her ankle. She turned it this way and that, glad that she felt no lingering pain. Hopefully, she’d make it out of the forest alive and without further incident.

As Emma became more aware, she realized the rain had stopped. It seemed clear outside, the faint rays of sun beginning to filter through the canopy of trees beyond the tent. The world seemed refreshed--cool and crisp. It would be a beautiful day.

But she was loathe to leave the warmth of the sleeping bag. The one she’d shared all night with Killian Jones.

“I have to say, I’ve never had such a good night’s sleep on the ground before,” he commented, gently drawing his arm away. When her head landed on teh way-less comfortable ground, she realized she’d been using his arm as a pillow, and she wondered if she’d drooled on him at all. He twisted his wrist a few times before laying his arm back down, the tattoo still visible and near her face. He grinned, “Must be the soothing sound of the rain.”

“Must be,” she said, smirking knowingly. She could see him better now, and she didn’t know if she was filled with glee or despair that he seemed as hot as she remembered. The early morning light was doing him all kinds of favors, casting just enough brightness so she could make out his even features--the dark scruff along his jaw, the scar on his cheek that she hadn’t noticed before. Without realizing it, she had reached out to trace along the curve of it, her fingers warm against the coolness of his skin as she did so.

“An incident involving my brother and a fishing knife,” he said, his breath brushing against her palm. Almost ( _almost_ ) against her will, she moved her hand to trace the inked name along his arm. She didn’t think she imagined his indrawn breath as she did it, her fingers lingering on his skin.

“Old war wound?” she asked. 

“Something like that,” he returned softly, not offering further explanation, so she didn’t ask. It was, after all, something she could identify with completely. She drew her hand back, wanting to prolong the moment but not knowing how. So, she craned her neck up, looking outside and casting around for something to say. 

“I hope my pants are dry,” she blurted, wanting to smack herself because as she said it, she realized they were still both pantsless. 

“They were when I checked about an hour ago,” he said. He shifted onto his back, his head disappearing beneath the sleeping bag. He stretched his arms over and out, and that’s when she noticed how close their bodies were; she was practically pressed up against him, and she’d wondered again what had happened to the pillow she had made sure to place between them to prevent this exact thing. 

“Wait, you’ve been out already? How did I not notice?”

“Told you, Swan,” he said, his voice muffled by the sleeping bag over his face. “You were sleeping too deeply; I doubt a lightning strike would have awakened you.”

“I don’t snore,” she said again, smiling as she buried her face beneath the sleeping bag. 

“I won’t tell Liam, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he told her, sounding much closer and more intimate now that she was burrowed in warmth with him. It reminded her of nicer times, other times when she’d buried herself beneath sheets with a man she’d thought she trusted. The fleeting impression of memories, both sweet and destructive, assaulted her, and made her falter. _He isn’t Neal_ , she thought. Then, _this isn’t the same thing, anyway_. Then-- _it’s not like we’re_ together _, or anything._

The path of her thoughts wasn’t something she was interested in pursuing, so she decided to focus on his words, groaning when Liam’s gleeful “ha- _ha_ , got you!” face popped into her head.

“I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Aye. He still hasn’t let me forget about the time I--well.” He sounded embarrassed, and Emma kind of wanted to know whatever tawdry story he had to tell, but something about the sheer intimacy of the moment stopped her. That’s when it occurred to her--she hadn’t been interested in hearing the childhood stories of a person in a good, long while. Not like this. Not the kind of way where she sort of found herself hanging on everything he wanted to share with her.

Crap.

Emma had slept with a guy, and not for sex. She felt more rested than she had in years. She was underneath the blankets (sleeping bag, whatever) with a man, ready to share pieces of herself that she kept hidden from almost everyone. 

Crap!

He shifted, and Emma realized something else--their legs were tangled together. It wasn’t until he moved that she even noticed, it was that comfortable. Then she remembered that he had left the sleeping bag at some point, then came back. 

She’d probably snuggled right into him. And he’d let her.

“I think it’s time to go,” she whispered, hoping he couldn’t hear how desperate she sounded. She had to get out of there, pronto.

Killian sighed. “Must we,” she thought she heard him say, but she couldn’t be sure. Didn’t want to be sure.

“I’ll just…” he began, but he mumbled the rest, unzipping the sleeping bag and doing his best to disengage their legs without managing to touch her. As he pulled himself out and started puttering around, Emma kept her head underneath the sleeping bag, not wanting to think about his bare legs, how they’d been tangled up with hers. For at least an hour. Maybe even all night. She was sorry she hadn’t been aware enough to appreciate it. Almost as sorry as she was at the loss of his warmth.

 _God_.

If there’s one thing Emma Swan sucked at, it was intimacy. Yet there she was, having had one of the most intimate moments of her entire life, and she practically missed the entire thing. 

As she lay there, berating herself and wondering whether she could get away with telling him to just leave her there so she wouldn’t have to face him, she felt something cold being shoved at her from the opening of the sleeping bag above her head.

“Pants on, Swan. It’s a lovely morning; hate for you to miss it. Up and at ‘em.”

“Yes, sir,” she muttered, glad he couldn’t see her. She had the distinct impression that he would have been able to follow the train of her thoughts if he had seen the look on her face, so she was glad to be buried. He laughed from somewhere outside, making shuffling sounds as he did whatever neat Marines trick he was doing next.

It wasn’t until she was struggling, somehow getting her feet into her pants and pulling them up that she realized her ankle wasn’t bothering her in the slightest. Maybe the rest and sleep had done exactly what it was supposed to do; maybe she hadn’t been as injured as they’d thought. Maybe the entire night spent cuddled with a strange and attractive man had been for nothing.

Emma finally left her warm cocoon, pants buttoned but not feeling like an emerging butterfly. Her hair was a complete disaster. If she’d been wearing mascara, she was sure she’d look more raccoon than anything, but she almost never wore makeup when working. Still, she ran her fingers under her eyes, hoping she didn’t look as terrible as she knew she could, considering she hadn’t washed her face or hell, combed her hair. 

Killian looked wonderful; of course he did, he was a guy. His hair was in some array of order, looking artfully mussed and not like he’d spent the night in the woods. His beard was fuller, and with his pants and flannel back on, he looked even more the survivalist lumberjack type than he had the night before.

“Is the fire still going from last night?” she asked, walking over to the little circle of rocks he’d created the night before. It wasn’t blazing cheerfully like it had been, driving the rain and the shadows away. Now it was a somber thing, licking out into the morning, little orange and blue wisps curling around the wood unwillingly. Kind of like how she was feeling. She, too, wasn’t ready for it to be day.

“No; I rebuilt it when I was up earlier. I thought you might want to make use of that coffee of yours?” His voice was eager, hopeful; it was a different side she was seeing of him, one he hadn’t shown her the previous day. His eyes were brighter, somehow, the steady increase of daybreak enhancing his handsome features. Emma couldn’t help herself, she nodded happily, both at the the thought of coffee and at the expression on his face. 

“Wait,” she said as she pawed through Henry’s backpack, feeling cheerful and smug when she came across the little box of Blonde roast her kid had packed for her. “Does this mean that I’m not completely useless when it comes to camping?” She walked back over and handed him the box, smirking a little when he held it up to his nose and frowned at it.

“Starbucks is not real coffee, Swan,” he said doubtfully.

“Don’t. Don’t mock a girl’s needs, Jones.”

“Don’t you call my brother ‘Jones?’” he chuckled. She watched as he wrapped his hand with the cuff of his flannel and reached into the fire for a tin cup balanced on a rock he’d stuck right in the middle. Emma grabbed her box of coffee packets, taking one and tearing it open. He held out his thermos, watching as she tipped the coffee into it and then following immediately with the hot water from the tin cup. They worked in tandem, not really needing to give each other direction. It was...oddly pleasing, how she didn’t have to explain things to him. He just seemed to be on the same wavelength as her. Idly, she wondered if it would be like this when it was no longer the two of them, or whether this was just a one-time thing, a product of the situation they’d found themselves in.

“What can I say,” she said, exaggerating a sigh as she took his thermos and swirled it around with her wrist before sniffing at the heaven inside. “I’ve spent three years of my life being taunted and insulted by a Jones. It’s a defense mechanism.”

“You’ve many of those,” he observed, taking the thermos back and swirling it around a few times. He set it down then held his hand out, waiting until she gave him the box of coffee. He took two more packets out and before she could say anything, he dumped them in the thermos.

“This swill isn’t strong enough,” he said in response to her “hey!” He grinned and did the almost-winking blink thing before tipping the thermos and filling up the tin cup he’d set down about halfway. He lifted it and handed it to her, almost-winking once more.

“Has anyone ever told you that you can’t wink for crap?”

“A beautiful woman told me that very thing only last night.”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t respond to his flirting, merely bringing the cup to her face and sniffing suspiciously. When she took a sip she almost sputtered, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be, and hell. She probably needed the caffeine jolt to make it back home.

“Oh, _god_ ,” she groaned after taking a deep sip. It nearly scalded her mouth, and she looked up to see whether Killian was laughing at her ecstasy over satiating her caffeine fix, but she was puzzled when she saw the return of his intense stares. 

Something told her he liked what he saw. She felt her face warming, but she was pretty sure that was just the steaming coffee next to her face.

“Shouldn’t we, uh. Start packing up?”

He looked one second longer before nodding, a slight smile tilting the corner of his mouth up. 

“I’ll see to the tent and sleeping bags if you’ll gather up the clothes.”

They made short work of their campsite, working together well. Killian had the sleeping bags and tent cover thing rolled and put away before she’d even folded her still-slightly damp shirt. She had to sneak away to (really awkwardly) do some business out in the trees and by the time she returned, the only evidence two complete strangers had spent the night curled around each other was a smoking pile of rocks and the flattened earth where they’d slept.

“Ready, Swan?”

Emma followed Killian, completely trusting in his ability to get them back home by now.They made it back to his Bronco, only stopping for the last bit of water in his _second_ water bottle (gees, he really _did_ come prepared for any eventuality) and one time when she hissed in pain. She’s scratched her hand on a wayward branch, and he had stiffened visibly before rushing to her side, kneeling down right there in the forest dirt and reaching for her ankle. Not knowing if she could handle him touching her again, she drew her leg away before he could check it out.

“Jones, it’s fine. Barely even hurts. I just scratched my hand, that’s all.” She held it out, showing him the thin line of almost-blood on the back, but he reached for it immediately, holding it up to his eyes and squinting down. Failing in her resolve to not let him touch her, she simply sighed and allowed him to do his thing.

“I’ve got antiseptic in my med-kit.”

“‘Tis merely a flesh wound.” He looked up at her then, exasperation in his eyes as he removed his rucksack.

“Right, Black Knight. All the same. We wouldn’t want a scar marring that perfect flesh of yours.” And just like the efficient Killian she’d gotten to know in the last twelve hours or so, he had antibacterial ointment and a Band-Aid in place before she could really complain about it. Not that she minded his warm hands all over her cold one, or the way he’d led her without touching her to an obliging boulder so she could sit, even pulling out his dirty shirt so she wouldn’t have to sit on a freezing cold rock.

Killian Jones was a gentleman, there was no doubt about that. Not the “women can’t open their own doors” kind of gentleman, but the “I am considerate without thinking twice” way. She wondered whether that was a Marines thing or a Jones brothers thing. A combination, she decided. Liam was like that, too, but Killian was…more. And without the sarcastic comments.

“Finally,” she groaned when they made it to the road. Her legs were stiff with cold and the unaccustomed work. She hated hiking. She hated the forest. She hated juvenile delinquents. 

The only thing she didn’t hate was finally meeting Killian Jones.

Liam was going to be insufferable.

The moment their feet hit the pavement, the both of them quickening their pace once his truck was spotted, Emma’s phone started dinging crazily. She whipped it out and started scrolling before unlocking, noticing most of the messages were “still alive, hope u are too” texts from Henry. She shot him a quick text that she’d be home soon and she’d see him after school before going back to the other messages. Three of them were pictures of Liam waving from her front door at three different times, one with a six pack of Natty Ice dangling from his fingertips.

“Idiot,” she both muttered and texted. And one message was a picture of David, Mary Margaret, and what seemed to be their new little bundle of trouble.

“Well, I see congratulations are in order,” Killian said over her shoulder. Startled, she nearly dropped her phone, his closeness making her feel flustered. Which was stupid, considering she’d had her legs wrapped around his sometime in the last few hours.

 _Maybe that was a one-time feeling_ , she told herself, feeling a little empty at the thought.

“I wonder if they’d consider ‘Killian’ for the name,” he mused, stepping away toward the passenger door. He opened it and bowed low, sweeping his arm toward her and grinning cheekily. 

“I think your brother has dibs on a name, but they’ll probably pick something less irritating,” she said as she shot back congrats to the new parents. She climbed in and set Henry’s backpack at her feet, chewing on her lip as she stared at her phone. Seeing her boss and his smiling but exhausted wife made Emma feel full of something--giddy exhaustion, maybe--and she felt the sudden need to see them, maybe touch on some of that happiness.

“Hey, should we go and say hi to the new family?”

Killian paused in the act of closing the door, his face turned away from her and looking off into--she didn’t know, exactly--the forest, his own head. He took a few moments to answer, finally turning to look her in the eye with that same intense, assessing look he’d been shooting her since they met. For the thousandth time, she wanted to know what he was thinking, and she wondered if they would ever get to the point where she’d feel comfortable enough to ask.

Probably not.

“We’re hardly in a condition to visit anyone, Emma,” he told her, his use of her first name making her disappointment a little bittersweet. “Besides, I don’t know Mary Margaret. I don’t wish to intrude.”

“Oh, she’ll love you,” Emma said dismissively, waving her hand and trying to give him a reassuring smile. “She loves everyone, and you’re exactly her type. I can’t believe you haven’t met her already, she knows everyone.”

“Aye, I’ve been invited to several dinners, but…” He trailed off, looking off into the distance again. It was driving her crazy, this not knowing what he was thinking. They were so comfortable in each other’s company that she almost felt like she had the right to ask, which was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been fit for company,” he finally said. Emma wondered what the hell that meant. Killian seemed exactly the type for company--his easy, warm banter and quiet strength was exactly the kind of thing she liked having around, and she was pretty sure everyone else would appreciate it, too. Anyway, her kid seemed to approve of him, and that was good enough for her. It should certainly be good enough for everyone else.

Suddenly, it seemed really important to Emma that he know that, so she told him.

“I think you’re just fine for company.”

It was crazy how much a genuine smile on the face of a handsome man could make her feel. First his eyes lit up, losing a little bit of the broody intensity he seemed to project with every glance, with every look right into her eyes. He had these appealing crinkles at the corners of his eyes--maybe a result of squinting in the sun while Marine-ing, maybe from frequent smiles. Whatever it was, she liked it. And the smile itself--Emma couldn’t decide if she liked the brightness of it, or the fact that it transformed his face from flannel model for a lumberjack catalog into something more approachable, more easy-going. Whatever. The boy was hot, and it occurred to her as she sat there in his truck, feeling a little stunned by his face, that the first big, genuine smile she’d gotten out of him was because she’d complimented him.

_I should do that more often._

“Thanks, Swan,” he said, his voice lighter now, his lips still slightly curled with pleasure. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been around people, but if everyone is as accommodating as you, then I’m sure I’ll be back in the swing of things in no time.” He gently closed the door, pausing for half a second to look at her through the mirror before jogging around to the driver’s side.

“Never been called accommodating before,” she murmured, feeling a big grin tugging at her own lips.

Emma sent Jones a quick _no way in hell am i coming into work this morning but i’ve got some evidence i’ll bring over later_ text before reaching down to search for the chair reclining lever. Moaning happily, she tilted as far back as possible, resting her hands on her chest with her phone grasped between them.

“Have a nap, Swan. Shall I take you home?”

“Do you know where I live?”

“Aye,” he said, chuckling. “That boy of yours is quite insistent in learning how to sail. Has he not told you? I pick him up after school three times a week, have been for awhile now. I thought you knew, if I’d known he didn’t tell you--”

“Killian,” she said, opening her eyes and reaching out to put her hand on his arm. “It’s fine. I trust Henry. If he trusts you, then so do I.” She didn’t add that a few hours with him--hell, five minutes after meeting him--had cemented her trust, anyway. 

“Still--”

“Just take me home, Jones.”

“Aye, aye.”

In what seemed no time at all his engine cut off and Emma opened her eyes, realizing she’d fallen half-asleep in the twenty minutes or so it had taken to get home. She sat up and lifted the chair, hitting herself in the back with an “oof” and blinking her eyes at the brightness. The sun was fully up now, cheerful and lighting her lawn a bright green. The rain had made everything look fresh and new, and Emma almost regretted that she’d probably be sleeping the day away. She may have gotten a good night’s rest (inches away from a man she suddenly didn’t want to leave), but she was still exhausted. And her back was starting to ache a bit.

“Do you have everything?”

Killian was quiet, and Emma didn’t think that she was crazy for thinking that there was reluctance in his tone. Like he didn’t want her to leave, either.

_Ask him out for coffee._

“Yeah, I’m good.” She almost considered leaving her phone there, just so she’d have an excuse to see him again, but that seemed too transparent. 

At a loss for what to do and not knowing how to proceed, Emma simply sighed and opened the door. She got out and turned, leaning back in to give him a smile. 

“I don’t know how to thank you for what you did, Killian.”

“Believe me when I say it was my utter pleasure,” he smiled. He seemed tired as well, but his eyes were glowing as they looked at each other. After a few moments of silence and mutual staring (and an overwhelming sense of longing, at least on her part), Emma backed away and quietly closed the door, Henry’s backpack slung on one shoulder.

When she heard him start the engine again, she stopped to turn and wave, feeling a stupid thrill when he waved back. She imagined she could see that one genuine smile he’d given her again, but it was probably just the brightness of the morning glinting off his windshield that was tricking her into seeing what she wanted to see.

* * *

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Emma scowled, shrugging out of her coat and slinging it over the back of her chair. She was asking herself the same thing, but once she’d laid out on her bed, she found that she was too wired for sleep.

“‘Hi, Emma. So glad to see a bear didn’t eat you. Was it awful? Was it cold? Did you catch the little shits tearing up our town?’” She sat down and fixed Jones with her best look of disapproval, feeling only a little bad when his brows drew down into a frown.

“Hullo, Swan. You’re too mean for a bear to eat. I know it wasn’t awful, for I’ve spoken with my brother. And I know the mission was a success.” He grinned at that--a knowing grin, and she found herself wondering what Killian had told him of their night. God, did Liam know they’d shared a sleeping bag? She’d never hear the end of it. She’d have to leave town. David would kill Killian if he thought he’d done something. She could see it now: _Scandal Rocks Sleepy Maine Town When Local Sheriff Goes on a Murderous Rampage_. Then she frowned--she didn’t think Killian was the type to kiss and tell, not that there was anything to tell, or any kissing, for that matter, but still--

“But seriously, are you all right? Killian said you hurt your ankle but that you seemed fine when he dropped you off. I trust things went off without any other hitch? He didn’t give me any details, salacious or no.” Jones waggled his eyebrows and Emma rolled her eyes in response, even though inwardly she was relieved. She knew she could trust Killian.

“I think I got what we need.” She pulled out her phone and sent him the file of the recording, waiting for him to play it and feeling triumphant at his gleeful whoop.

“Fantastic, Swan! See, I was right! You and my little brother make an excellent team. Now, tell Uncle Liam everything. Did he impress you with his wilderness skills? Did he kill your supper with his bare hands? Did you make s’mores by a roaring campfire?”

“Didn’t he tell you?”

“My brother rarely confides in me these days.” Emma was puzzled at the dark turn of Jones’ voice, wondering what was up with that. But she definitely wasn’t going to ask. 

“I ate dinner out of a bag and nearly killed myself slipping on wet pine needles,” she said wryly, flipping her computer on and avoiding his gaze. She wondered if the warmth in her face was showing; she certainly hoped not. Jones was a good cop; he’d sniff that out in a heartbeat and harp in on it, pouncing and asking question after question until she found herself blurting out, “Yes, I slept with your brother! He smells really good, and I’m dying to lick every tattoo on his hard body!”

The very thought made her shift in her chair. Crap. Crap! Emma was _totally_ into Liam’s brother.

“That sounds...bloody awful,” Jones said doubtfully. “Was my brother silent the entire time? He used to be a chatterbox, a real charmer, coaxing birds from the sky and women from their knickers until…” Emma finally looked up when he didn’t finish, wondering about that “until.” She’d sensed some dire story there, something awful, and now she found herself wondering what Killian’s deal was, whether he was more than some hot guy who was strong and good at, like. Everything.

“He was fine.” She didn’t feel like talking about it just yet, especially not with Liam Jones. 

“Fine.” Something in Jones’ tone made Emma look up again, and she was kind of surprised when he had a thunderous look on his face. “ _Fine_.”

“Yeah, fine.” She started tapping on her keyboard, logging into the station’s server and hoping there was some email to answer, some form to fill out.

“Because if he was anything less than a gentleman to you, I’ll wring his scrawny little neck.”

“Scrawny?” Emma laughed, looking up once again. Jones looked murderous, even going so far as to stand and start pacing. He was muttering under his breath and it hit her then--he thought Killian had been--what, rude? Less-than-gentlemanly? That was laughable. Did he not know his brother? Emma’d barely known him a day, and she didn’t think that was possible.

Jones walked over to her desk, standing over her and looking imposing. For the first time since she’d met him, she saw what his crew must have seen: the commanding captain, the man who had won commendations and had led an entire navy vessel to glory, or whatever. 

“Jones, I swear. Your brother’s great. He was really helpful, and I’m pretty sure I would have died out in that forest without him.” She didn’t feel it necessary to add that she wouldn’t have been out there in the first place were it not for Liam himself; the hard look in his eye stopped her from doing that.

“Because if he was an idiot or he...was inappropriate, then I hope you’d tell me.”

“Inappropriate?” Emma realized he meant, like...in a sexual way. She laughed internally at the thought. _I wish._

“Aye. I taught him better, but he’s been so out of sorts for a while now, and--”

“Jones.” She stopped him before he could say anything, because somehow, it seemed like if she was going to find out anything about the possibly sordid past of Killian Jones, it ought to be from the man himself. “I promise. He was great. We got along great. I...I really like him.” She meant it, too. She liked him. Crap.

Liam continued to glower as he digested her words, clenching his jaw a couple of times. And then...the hugest, shit-eatingest grin she’d ever seen on him lit his face.

“Oh, you like him, do you?”

“Shut up.”

“I knew it.”

“You did not.”

“I did, in fact.” He was smug now, and Emma hated giving him that. “I knew if I could get you two together that you’d hit it off.”

“A-ha! You admit to being a Yenta!”

“I admit nothing.”

“You just did, you totally admitted you tried to get us together.”

“I merely meant--”

“No take-backs, Jones. You’re a meddling mama. Oh, and thanks.”

“For?”

“Being all protective over me. I didn’t know you cared. It’s sweet, really.”

He scowled before walking away. Emma felt like she ought to be crowing in triumph, but somehow, she didn’t feel it. Jones’ walk of shame back to his desk reminded her of the sad set in Killian’s shoulders earlier in the morning, and she realized she wanted to find out what that was all about.

Around lunchtime, Emma was feeling exhausted, but she definitely didn’t want to go home. Liam had played her recording about a thousand times (mostly because he liked rewinding the part where she’d fallen and yelled out ‘fuck!’) over the station phone intercom, and they’d decided to present their evidence after calling in Felix’s parents for a meeting. It would have to wait until David was back from paternity leave, but they were patient.

Since there was nothing else going on, Emma decided to take a nice, long lunch break. 

“Cheeseburgers today?” he asked at some point.

“Actually, I’m going to go out for lunch.”

Emma ignored Jones’ raised eyebrows because she didn’t want to get defensive in front of him; she had a mission now that work was cleared up, and she was determined to see it through.

She was going to bring Killian Jones a thank-you lunch.

Problem was, she didn’t know where he’d be. She assumed the docks, but she didn’t really know for sure, so she decided to go to the best place for in-town gossip. Granny’s.

“Killian Jones?” Granny Lucas herself eyed Emma over the counter, going so far as to lean down and let her glasses slide down her nose. “Now, what does the sheriff’s department want with that nice boy?”

“Boy?” Emma laughed, feeling uneasy at the hard stare Granny was giving her. Granny ought to work in law enforcement with her incredibly effective interrogation techniques. She always found herself telling the woman just a little bit more than she meant to, and she realized she’d have to be on her toes if she was going to be asking after men like this.

“You’re all boys and girls to me,” Granny sniffed. “What’s he done? His brother will whip him if he acts out of line, not that I expect him to do so. He’s a model citizen, if you ask me. Don’t listen to what you’ve heard, he’s a good man, and it would do you good to realize that sooner rather than later.” Mystified as to what that meant, Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Granny cut her off.

“I won’t have you messing with him, Deputy. He’s a good boy, and--”

“Granny. I know that. I want to bring him lunch. Do you know his order?” Granny knew everyone’s order.

The cantankerous old woman’s entire face changed then, a large grin overtaking her surly expression. She stood up straight and pushed her glasses up her nose.

“Leroy owes me five bucks.” With that odd statement she turned, and Emma watched helplessly, her jaw slack as Granny bustled over to the kitchen window and barked out an order.

“Swan’s grilled cheese and the younger Jones’ pastrami.”

“In two separate bags.” Granny frowned at her, and she almost said, “Really?” In response, but that just would have gotten her into more trouble. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you, and you certainly don’t sass the woman with the iron spatula and hand-cut french fries.

So, Emma sat down on a stool, trying to ignore Granny’s knowing looks. 

Gees, was everyone trying to set them up? Small towns are _ridiculous_.

“He’ll be down by the dock until sunset,” Granny said in passing, giving Emma another look. Emma thanked her, silently praying that no one else would feel the need to comment on the fact that one of their deputies was bringing lunch to the newest member of their community.

After paying for the lunches (and ignoring Ruby’s wolfish grin when she handed her the bag), Emma got into her car, heading down to the docks. The town rooting for her or not, she wasn’t going to let her own shit get in the way. She owed Killian a thank you, if nothing else, and she was determined to give him that. 

She tried not to think about how easy it had been, being around him. How it felt natural, like breathing; how it had been simple with him. She tried not to wonder if he felt the same way.

When she pulled up to the harbor, she parked her Bug and grabbed his lunch, hoping he wasn’t there and dying at the thought at the same time. She felt awkward; she’d gone out on exactly one date since moving to Storybrooke, and while it had been fine, it hadn’t sparked. August Booth was too restless, too in-and-out, and she’d known within five minutes of his spontaneous suggestion that they meet for drinks that he wasn’t for her. Not that many men were; why did she think Killian would be any different?

She spotted him down the docks a ways, scrubbing at something on the side of a boat cabin. She’d never really spent time down there, and she wondered whether that was Jones’ boat, or whether Killian was sort of in charge of all of them.

“That's quite a vessel you captain there, _lieutenant_ ,” she called out once she was near enough, pronouncing it the same way Liam had.

Killian looked up and grinned, and Emma couldn't remember anyone's smile making her feel like she would burst. Well, Henry, but this was different. Something about the flashing teeth and crinkling eyes of Killian Jones made Emma feel a rush of fluttery warmth tickle her insides, and she decided to just let it happen.

“Swan,” he said warmly as she approached. He hopped over the side of the boat and landed on the dock just as she got there. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets and swayed closer, and she noticed that something in his attitude was different from when they'd first met. He seemed more comfortable, more himself, even though she wasn't exactly sure what his self was really like. But she wanted to know, and that's what should have freaked her out, only it didn't.

“What've you got there?”

“Your favorite.” 

“Beef stew?”

“Well, I asked for spaghetti, but it wasn’t ready yet.” She reached out, handing him the bag with _Granny's_ emblazoned across the front. “Pastrami, extra pickles and mustard.”

“Who told you that was my favorite?” Emma tapped the logo on the bag, and he grinned.

“Bless her. Onion rings?”

“Fries. The rings are mine.”

“I see you did your homework.”

Emma smiled, feeling the flush of heat bloom on her cheeks, but she didn't care. She'd wanted to get it right, and it did feel right.

He opened the bag and peeked inside, taking a whiff and smiling serenely.

“Nobody does fries quite like Granny Lucas. I've been to seventeen different countries, and nothing compares to the way that woman cooks. Honestly, I don't know how I lived before moving here.”

“I know how you feel,” she said softly. When he met her eyes and smiled in question, she quirked her mouth into a half-smile in response.

“Are you joining me?”

He looked so hopeful that she felt bad for having to disappoint him. But it seemed...too much.

“Can't. I've got to get back to the station. I just...” But suddenly, the words seemed so hard to say. He stood there patiently, however, waiting for her to finish, and it was that—that he seemed so patient with her, allowing her to take things at her own speed—that made her finish. “I just wanted to bring you lunch. And to say thanks, for, you know. Helping me out.” It seemed so stupid the moment she said it, but if the bright, beaming smile that extended to his eyes and beyond she got was any indication, she'd said exactly the right thing.

“You’re welcome,” was his response, at least from his mouth. But the way his eyes darkened as he looked at her said more. She couldn't stop looking at him, couldn't pull her gaze away, so she didn't.

“Are you sure you won’t join me?” he said after a while, and she wanted to, she really did--but her mind screamed that it was too soon. She’d only met him the day before, after all. Even if it felt like she’d known him longer.

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse again, which she really didn’t want to do, but then he changed tactics. He took the bag from her and swayed closer, which drove her crazy because she caught a whiff of the warm male smell of him, and it addled her brain a little. She was ready to give him whatever he wanted, which should have set all sorts of alarms dinging.

“Or, perhaps, we could have a real meal together? One that doesn’t come out of some sort of a bag?” His smile was so infectious that she felt herself smiling in response, and when she nodded wordlessly, the look of smug triumph in his eyes made her want to do cartwheels.

“Excellent,” he murmured, reaching out to brush her hair behind her ear. She held her breath; how was it that such simple things could make her breathless, could make her want to throw years of caution and instinct out into the ocean?

Then he pulled away, taking a few steps back until she was reeling at the sudden loss of him. He was doing the intense eyes thing again, and she wanted to holler at him to come back, or maybe to kiss her.

_Doomed. I am doomed._

“Rest up, Swan. Be back here tomorrow at sunset. Wear something warm. Perhaps I shall provide two proper, functioning sleeping bags this time.” With that, he hopped back over onto the boat, and Emma was left standing there, wondering what it was, exactly, that she’d just gotten herself into.

She couldn’t wait to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

“So, I hear you’re going out with Liam’s brother?”

Emma choked on her onion ring. 

“Excuse me?”

Mary Margaret gave Emma her sweetest, most innocent smile, which put Emma on instant alert. The sheriff’s wife was also the principal of the high school, and you don’t get that job without knowing how to set those in trouble at ease before pouncing. Emma finished swallowing and wiped her fingers on a napkin, suddenly wishing she hadn’t decided to be a coward and have lunch at the hospital with her friend and new mother instead of the nice Marine with the nice body who terrified her just a little bit, even if he actually had nothing to do with her terror. It was the good kind of terror, the thrilling kind--the kind that made her curl her toes a little bit just thinking about it.

The baby made a cranky noise and Mary Margaret’s attention was blessedly drawn from the coming inquistion; Emma silently thanked the nameless little guy, turning back to her grilled cheese and taking a big bite to avoid answering any more questions.

“Don’t think you can eat your way into avoiding my questions, Deputy. Word is, you and Killian Jones had an eventful night. And now you’re bringing him lunch? Why, Emma Swan. Is this the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

“Who’s bringing who lunch?” David came bustling in with three vases of flowers in his arms; he set them on the windowsill before coming over and kissing the top of Emma’s head, then Mary Margaret’s, then the baby’s. 

“Who’s bringing whom lunch,” Mary Margaret said automatically, then, “Nobody.” She gave Emma a significant look. David may be a great boss and excellent sheriff, but he was remarkably dense about picking up on things like town gossip. Emma was thankful for that, and thankful that Mary Margaret wasn’t going to fill him in on the latest. He was a little overbearing when it came to men and Emma, and while she usually found that it worked to her advantage, somehow, she knew that this time, he wouldn’t take too kindly to knowing that one of his deputies was into the brother of his other deputy.

As Emma left the hospital and drove back to the station, she reflected on the fact that it had barely been a day, and already there was talk. That was one of the annoying things about living in a small town--everyone was up in everyone else’s business, and it’s why she never wanted to date anyone in Storybrooke. Sure, she missed casual sex, but that was never much of a thing with her, anyway (well, not too much). Not even back in New York--single mother, and all that. Itches got scratched, and sometimes she allowed the scratcher to take her out for coffee the day after. Nothing more. And she certainly never let the guys meet her kid.

But now, here was a guy that was already both kid-approved and friends-approved. 

It should make her want to run, _he_ should have made her want to run.

She did want to run. Toward him.

Things only got worse from there. When she got home later, tired as hell and wanting nothing more than to sleep on a mattress where there was a shower nearby, she opened the front door to her kid sitting in the chair facing the entryway, his arms folded and his eyebrows raised.

“So?”

“So…?”

“How’d it go?”

“How’d what go?” 

Emma set her keys down and hung her coat on the rack, wondering if sending a teenager to his room for curiosity was a thing.

“Mom. Killian texted an apology that he couldn’t take me out sailing today or tomorrow. What did you do?”

“Why did I have to do anything?” she snapped. She instantly regretted giving him attitude, but honestly. Did everyone have to be up in her love life like this?

“Wait. He didn’t do something, did he? Because I mean, I really like him and I think he’d be great for you, but if he did something, I swear, I’ll--”

“What is with everyone? Nothing happened. I hurt my ankle and he made it better. It rained, so he built us shelter, like, with his bare hands. He kept me warm, dry, and fed all night. We even caught the bad guys on tape. All in all, the night went, well. Not as planned, but pretty damned near. Killian seems like a good guy. And by the way--I wish you’d talked to me about the sailing, but I’m cool with it. Now, may I go to my room, Dad?”

Henry regarded her seriously, his arms still tight across his chest. Then he raised his brow in an infuriating imitation of both of the Jones brothers.

“Kept you warm how, exactly?”

“Henry.”

“People are going to talk.”

“People are already talking. Maybe you should have thought of that before you conspired with Jones to set us up.” Henry flushed bright red at that, his eyes darting away and his arms finally uncrossing. He stood up and brushed at his pants--anything to keep from meeting her eyes.

“Ha! I knew it.”

“Damn.”

“Language.”

“Shoot.”

“Henry,” she sighed, walking over and wrapping him into a big hug. She kissed his hair and leaned over to speak in his ear (and when did she have to stop leaning _down_ to do that?). “You’re very sweet, and your obvious approval means a lot. Just...let me do my own thing, okay?”

“Okay, Mom,” he said, nodding. 

“And do me a favor? Keep everyone else off my back. I’m feeling cornered here.”

“Got it.” 

Smiling as she let go, Emma squeezed his arm once before turning to go upstairs. She suddenly felt a huge weight lift off her chest, and when she flopped down onto her bed, she didn’t get up again until the next morning.

* * *

“All right, I’ve had enough. What’s eating you, Swan?”

All morning long, Emma had been on edge. She had awakened invigorated, refreshed, and ready to tackle the day. One of those rare mornings where she didn’t require coffee before stumbling into the shower, where she stepped under the warm stream of water and felt a sense of purpose, of renewal. Like she was going to have a great day.

Then Killian’s smirk popped into her head, and she had to pause mid scalp-scrub. 

Date!

She had a date with him. That evening. At least, she thought it was a date. It suddenly occurred to her that she wasn’t even sure. He’d been joking about bringing sleeping bags along, right?

Everything after that realization was a disaster. She got soap in her eye while rinsing, then she cut her stupid ankle shaving her legs (shaved legs mean date, right?) because it was the busted ankle, and as she passed her Venus over it, she remembered Killian touching her there. Sure, it had been over her pants, but there was something so...Victorian about it all. He’d been a total gentleman, but he’d also been touching her somewhere she didn’t usually let people see. And it all happened over proper clothing.

Anyway, she cut her stupid ankle.

Then Henry had called her in a panic because he forgot his lunch money, so she had to bring it to him--problem was, in her haste to not be late to work, she forgot her coffee. Then when she got to the station, Jones had forgotten to make a new pot, so she had to wait. Impatient with that, she walked across the street to Dopey’s Donuts, but there was Leroy, sneering at their Bunn Automatic while clanking on it with a wrench, which Emma was pretty sure wasn’t an effective way to fix the thing, but she was too annoyed to say so.

Then there was Jones, who was truly being much less Jones than usual, but everything he said and did just set her off. Maybe it was because she noticed that his profile was cut just like his brother’s, and that he, too, had incredibly appealing smile lines at the corners of his eyes. The same blue eyes, come to think of it. It’s just that Jones didn’t look at her the same way.

All in all, a terrible morning.

“What’s eating _you_?” she returned, irritation plain in her voice. “ _I_ am just fine.”

“You really aren’t. Your conversation is less scintillating than usual. Everything all right?” The actual concern in his voice made her pause; who was he, and what had he done to her partner? Then it occurred to her that it must be Killian-related, and that just set her off again. She had to count to ten before she could talk again, because it wasn’t his fault that she was freaking out.

“Liam,” she sighed. “Just...let me have this one, okay?”

“All right, Emma,” he said softly. “All right.”

Of course, the truth was that Emma was nervous. She’d never really dated? Not much. She and Neal had sort of just...fell into each other. Met and hit it off and then it was just a series of being together all the time, not really doing the thing you always hear about where you try on a thousand dresses and then groan over shoe selection and giggle over the phone with your girls about it afterward. No; Neal had been easy, until he hadn’t been. 

Maybe that’s what had her so strung out and tripping over her own two feet (although this time, not literally); she’d never dated. Because Neal had bailed and she’d ended up pregnant, then she was just the eighteen-year-old with a kid. It’s not like that made the men come running. Then it became about whether she wanted to go through the trouble of vetting a guy to see if he was worth the best part of herself she had to give: Henry. And she never did, not with the guys who tended to hit on her.

Then along comes this person and...Emma was confused. Excited, too. 

It was all very new to her, and she wasn’t even sure it was a date. So, maybe she was a little more irritable than usual.

The rest of the day passed in a long string of the usual calls Storybrooke gave her: an actual distress call about a cat up a tree; the local pawnbroker being condescending about whether they’d caught the vandals who’d Sharpie’d his windows (and with absolute relish, she’d told him they were “working on it” again--no use giving the man the satisfaction just yet). David calling to check up and make sure someone remembered to switch out the cleaning schedule for the new month. All mundane things.

And all Emma could do in between calls was play Yahtzee on her phone with some stranger and think about Killian. He’d said to bring something warm, so she had a thick sweater, beanie, gloves, two pairs of socks, and a thermos with coffee and _three_ bottles of water packed in a bag sitting under her desk. If she’d have known where to find MREs, she would’ve gone to pick some up.

Around quittin’ time, Jones frowned down at his phone, tapping furiously and scowling at whatever he saw there. Emma felt kind of bad for being short with him when he hadn’t actually done anything to deserve it, but she was too hyped to know how to make it up to him. Figuring she could bring him a bear claw in the morning (assuming she didn’t have to spend the night on the forest floor again or hell, ending up stranded in the middle of the ocean), she tried to catch his attention to convey with her face that they were square. She’d never tried to make amends with him before, but hell. There was a first time for everything.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, tossing his phone on his desk with disgust. Normally, he treated it like the lost treasure of the Sierra Madre, so Emma knew something was definitely up. Feeling sympathy she was unused to associating with her partner, she finally decided to pipe up.

“Uh.” She cleared her throat. “You okay, Jones?”

“Yes,” he grunted, flicking his eyes toward her and away just as fast. “It’s that git of a brother of mine. He’s…” Jones put his head in his hands and leaned forward on his desk. “Something’s up with him. At first I thought it might be you, and by the way, Swan, I’m sorry to tease you about it. It’s just that I’d really hoped you’d be good for him, you know? I worry over him too much, I know that. Ever since…” There it was again. But Liam didn’t tell her whatever it was, and she was glad for it. She would have thought less of him if he had. “He’s had a rough go. I thought that moving here to this nice place would help him, and I believe it has. Logically, at least I thought logically, the next step would be moving on, finding a little bit of happiness. It’s all I want for him.” Emma had to swallow back a sudden lump in her throat. Before she could take it back, she turned to her infernal sarcasm to fend off her feelings.

“And you thought I might be a little bit of happiness?”

He looked up at that, fixing her with that intense Jones boys stare.

“Aye. I did.”

For the first time all day, Emma felt strength and courage fill her up. She stood and pushed away from her desk, walking over to Jones and brushing a kiss at his temple.

“You’re a good guy sometimes, Jones.”

“This is what I’ve been telling you for years.”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“All right.” He grinned and sat back, but then scowled again when his phone pinged. He picked it up and shook his head at whatever he saw there. “And now he refuses my company. Honestly, I don’t understand him sometimes.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that Killian was probably blowing him off because of their maybe-date, but then she figured that if Killian wasn’t telling his own brother about it that he had a good reason. So, she kept that piece of information to herself. No need adding to the gossip mill if there wasn’t anything to gossip about, right?

God, what if it _wasn’t_ a date?

Deciding to stop freaking herself out and almost succeeding, Emma returned to her desk and somehow managed to make it through the last hour. After greeting the switchboard night shift operator, she made her way to her car, her bag over her shoulder and a bounce in her step. Even if it wasn’t a date, she was excited and impatient to see him.

When she reached the harbor, parking her car farther down and looking for Killian, she was caught by the beauty of the ocean at sunset. Whatever freak rainstorm that had passed over the previous night wasn’t threatening their outing; the sky was clear and purple-black, the red and orange of the sun merging with the serene and flat line of the dark horizon. 

Emma had a momentary bout with anxiety when she realized she couldn’t distinguish one boat from another and probably wouldn’t have been able to in the light of day, anyway. She decided to walk along the moorings, hoping against hope that Killian hadn’t forgotten about her and that he’d find her before she fell into the Storybrooke Harbor.

Within moments of her search, she heard him call out, “Over here, Swan!” There a few boats down was Killian, dressed in a peacoat with his beanie pulled down over his ears. She smiled, wondering if that was standard-issue Marine wear and hoping so. She liked the thought of him roaming the world dressed like a particularly delicious treat.

“Hi,” he said, somewhat breathless when she got there.

“Hi, yourself,” she responded, feeling like her cheeks would hurt from the smiling. He was looking at her in that same way, only it felt a little different this time--like he was sketching her with his eyes--and she nearly squirmed under the scrutiny, but in a great way.

“How was work?”

“Eh,” she shrugged, conveniently forgetting her shitty day. “You? Um. You do work down here, right?”

“Aye,” he returned, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. “I’ve an affinity for engines. I have several clients who pay me to keep their toys running.”

“Including your brother?”

“Actually, the boat belongs to the both of us.” He gestured expansively and vaguely behind him at the boat they were standing near. “I used most of the money I had saved from my floats. It was always a dream of ours, owning a boat and sailing the open ocean. That was somewhat dulled when we went off across the world together, but boyhood dreams are hard to shake.” When he didn’t continue she focused on his face, realizing she’d been watching his mouth as he spoke. Hoping it was dark enough that he couldn’t see her blush, she looked into his eyes, a question in her expression.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s just…” He came forward a step--not close enough to touch her, but close enough that she wanted him to. “You’re easy to talk to.”

“A trait that makes me an invaluable law enforcer.”

He laughed, throwing his head back in delight, and when he returned to look at her, she saw that same flash in the dark she’d seen the previous night, only this time there was no fire, and no stupid trees. Just them, and the ocean.

“Come, love. Let’s sail away.”

He held out his hand and with no apprehension, Emma followed where he led.

As it turned out, he had planned to take her out to see the coast. He’d packed sandwiches and fruit (“No wine, unfortunately. Don’t want to drive drunk, even on the ocean.”), blushing when he explained it was about all he knew how to make. 

“I subsist on sandwiches,” she told him, taking a huge bite out of a turkey on wheat. “God, this cheese is amazing. Is it Swiss?”

“Havarti,” he said, digging around in a bowl for a grape. They ate in silence for a while, the boat bobbing lazily while they sat on chairs at the rail. They were anchored a few miles out, the lights of the Maine coastline charming and dense off in the distance, bright and sparse nearer to where they were floating. 

He was funny, regaling her with some of his more off-color adventures while serving, some of the stories including Liam and threats of violence. “He was forever reprimanding me in private for being too informal with the sailors. ‘You’re supposed to be serving your country, Killian, not jokes for the hoi-polloi,’ he would tell me, to which I would reply, ‘Remove your regulations book from your arse, big brother.’” Emma laughed, picturing a stodgy Jones in the white sailor’s uniform and cute little hat, barking like a big dog at the sly puppy brother of his.

“What was it like serving with your brother?”

He swallowed the last of his sandwich, reaching for a water bottle (he’d grinned when she showed him what she brought, saying, “Ah, so the lady is a quick study”) and taking a swig. “Excellent. Liam’s a fine captain, and while I wasn’t directly under him, I did have to obey. He’s always fair, if not a little stern. You wouldn’t recognize him from the more laid-back man he is now. I understand he likes to haze you a bit?”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Killian smiled at that.

“Don’t let him get to you, Swan. He only teases the ones he likes. He’s quite a child in that regard.”

“He seemed irritated with you today.” That made Killian turn away, and she regretted it immediately. She didn’t want to push him to confide in her, even if she was dying to know everything.

“Aye,” he said softly. “I’ve not been the easiest person to deal with lately.” Emma let the silence go on, not knowing what to say. It was so easy being with him--and he made it clear--at least, she thought it was clear--that he was into her. But she didn’t really know what to do with that, so she decided that for now, she’d take her cues from him. 

He stood, collecting their trash and packing it away in that economical way he had. Then he returned to her, moving his chair closer before sitting so that their arms were touching. She resisted the urge to bite her lip; was it weird that she wanted to touch him, to hold his hand? God, she was so bad at this.

“Is this a date?”

_Great, Emma. So much for taking your cues from the guy._

He chuckled, a warm, lovely sound that almost made her forget about the cold sea spray on her face. Dipping his head down for a moment, he turned to her, his eyes searching her face before his mouth quirked up at the corner.

“Did you want it to be a date?”

She didn’t even pause to consider; she nodded. Yes, she definitely wanted that.

“I suppose I didn’t make my intentions clear.”

He took her hand in his, his thumb rubbing at her pulse as he kept looking in her eyes. Then he glanced down before hooking two fingers at the edge of her glove. He drew it halfway down her palm and leaned down, lightly pressing a kiss at her wrist. 

Emma had never experienced anything like it. In a daze, she thought that it must be what they meant when they said “it took my breath away.” 

“Yes, Emma Swan. This is a date.”

All right then.

He let go of her hand and leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply and tilting his head back to gaze at the sky. Emma didn’t know what to do or say so she simply followed suit, sinking down a little in her chair and letting her legs splay out. She felt loose, drunk; or maybe like she’d just run a marathon in place. 

“I know it’s been a while, but I didn’t think I’d be so terrible that a woman wouldn’t recognize my attempts at courtship, sad as they are.”

“No, it’s just that--”

“My fault, Swan. I…” He cleared his throat before continuing. “I lost someone, you see. It’s been an awfully long time since I’ve…” He seemed to be searching for the words, and she wondered if it was hard for him to talk about it. This must be what Liam keeps almost saying, she thought.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve got crap, too.”

“And I’d be honored to hear your crap, if you ever chose to tell me,” he chuckled. He leaned back farther and hoisted his legs to prop them up against the rail, crossing them at the ankles. “No, I--” He paused again. It was something Emma noticed about him from the very first--he chose his words carefully, as if he knew his mouth could get him in trouble. She knew the feeling.

“When I got out, I was lost. I told you I was honorably discharged, but it was a near thing. I had disagreed heavily with command, and I was reprimanded heavily in return. Rather than continue with something I was growing discontented with, I decided to leave, rather than sign up for more. Liam stayed in a bit longer, but I think that he, too, was ready to go. He’s simply more stubborn than I. Anyway, I floundered a bit, not quite settling anywhere. That’s when I met Milah.” His hand rubbed at his forearm, and she knew he was remembering her--the woman who’d inspired the tattoo. Emma wondered if he realized he was doing it.

“Milah was...a force of nature. Beautiful, audacious. She had this hungry look in her eyes, and young and foolish as I was, I thought I was just the thing to satisfy her appetite for adventure.” Emma looked at him just in time to catch a dark look pass over his face. “And I was, for a while. Then I found out she hadn’t left her husband, not legally. I was angry with her, and angrier with him, with the man who didn’t appreciate such a woman. We fought about it, and she took off in anger.” He stopped talking then, his head still thrown back and staring off into the night sky. It was several moments before he began to speak again.

“She was killed in an accident that night. I--well. It was my fault, of course. Always shooting my mouth off, never caring about the consequences. Anyway, that’s why I haven’t been fit for company these last few years. I suppose Liam tired of it quickly; he was sympathetic, but his solution to my troubles was to see me settled and--oh, I don’t know. A passel of brats and a nice little wife to tie me down. Didn’t sound like my kind of adventure. At least not at the time.” Emma held her breath; she could feel it coming, some big sort of revelation, and she didn’t want to hear it. It was too big, it was too much; Killian was not the kind of guy to just open up like this, she could tell. Maybe he had been, once; but not now.

Yet here he was, telling her about his tragic backstory. Her. Why her?

She thought she knew. She could feel it, could tell what it would be. The scariest part that wasn’t really scary at all was that she could feel herself responding to it before he even said it.

“I was angry for a long time, Emma. Angry at myself, at the world. At Milah. Her damned husband. The Marine Corps, Liam for being such a mother hen. And then one day I simply...wasn’t. Well, I was--I believe I still am. But the anger is no longer in my heart. More like...a companion that sits next to it, shriveled as it feels sometimes. The thing is…” He trailed off and for the first time it drove her crazy, his needing to find the right words. Emma kind of felt like there was something in her own chest sitting next to her heart, squeezing it painfully and mocking her for her own breathlessness. She wanted to run, she wanted to take off; she wanted to sit in his lap and grab his lapels and shake him and holler in his face to get on with it, already.

“The thing is. When I moved here, I was quite certain I’d live out my days being the town hermit, the one mothers warn their children about. ‘Don’t bother Old Man Jones, he hides the bodies out in the ocean.’ Maybe be the favorite cranky old uncle for my brother’s children. Liam finally succeeding in getting me to join him out here after years of pleading and begging and lecturing. He’s been saying I simply need to get out there, live a little. That Milah would insist on it--which is true, she’d be angry if she knew what I’ve been up to, or not been up to. Anyway. That’s the thing of it. I never thought I’d be capable of letting go of her, of letting go of my anger. That is--until I met you.” He looked over at her then; not with that intense, brooding stare of his, and not like he was memorizing her face. He simply looked, without putting any weight behind it. No pressure to return his feelings, or even answer.

Emma didn’t know what to say. She had never felt like this before, like she was completely blank and only vaguely aware that her heart was beating faster than usual. She was aware that she was looking at him, she was aware that the cool breeze blowing in off the ocean was whipping her hair around her nose. She was aware that her mouth was open, and that little puffs of air were escaping from it as she breathed. But she felt blank, and like the world was buzzing around in the edge of her vision and her body.

“I don’t say these things to bind you to me,” he said quickly, breaking their stare and turning to face forward. “I simply wish to explain myself, why I seem...without, sometimes. I realize I’m no longer the same man that Liam raised, and it brings me more sorrow than he’ll ever know. I try not to irk him, for I owe him so much, for literally saving me when I thought I would drown in my own anger and a bottle of rum. I came here for him, I really did. I figured it was the least I could do, but now that I’m here and I’ve met you, I mean--you don’t need to reciprocate, I’m sorry for putting this on you, it’s just that you’re so easy to be with, and--”

“Killian.”

“Hmm?” 

“Shh.” Emma lifted herself out of her chair and leaned over, bracing herself on one elbow. With her other arm she brought her hand up and swept his hair off his brow. “I understand. And I know what you mean.” Then, before she could second-guess herself, she crossed the inches of space between them and kissed the corner of his mouth. 

When she pulled back, she felt like she’d won the lottery at the look on his face. His eyes were bright and full of wonder, and he actually raised his hand to touch the spot where she’d kissed him with his fingertips. 

“All right, then,” he grinned, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. Emma grinned, too, amazed at the entire thing. She sat back and tried to put her feet up on the rail, too, but her legs flopped down and she laughed. Laughing along with her, Killian leaned forward and grabbed her legs, lifting them over his as he settled them back on the rail.

She knew he’d said there was no need to reciprocate, but she wanted to. He suddenly seemed so at ease, like telling her those deeply personal things had lifted a huge burden, and she wanted that, too. But that seemed a selfish reason to open herself up to him, so she didn’t. Instead, she enjoyed the simple thing that he was offering: companionship, and a nice night out on a boat. 

Quietly, he asked her if she was free over the weekend, and it took everything she had in her not to shout, “Yes!” in response. Instead, she nodded, pulling out her phone asking for his number before she lost the nerve. Smiling, he gave it to her, pulling out his own phone to make sure he had her number as well. 

They were quiet for a long time after that, and after he’d pulled them safely back to the mooring, he hadn’t kissed her good night. But the way he looked at her--like he really wanted to--was almost the same thing, anyway.

Almost.

* * *

“So. How was the big date?”

Henry was waiting up for her, sitting in the same chair across from the door with his arms crossed in the same way. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so exasperating.

“Big date?”

“Mom.” Henry fixed her with a smirk, tilting his head and looking her up and down. “Did you have fun?”

“Yep.” Rather than try to avoid it, she decided to confide in her kid. He’d find out, anyway--between his being the smartest kid in town (the state, the planet) and the way it felt like the entire town was invested in it, he’d find out. “He took me out on his boat.”

“I figured.”

“You being a dating guru, and all that?” She removed her coat, gloves, and beanie, feeling very warm after her night out at sea and her continual re-living of the moment Killian had kissed her wrist. 

“Seems very Killian to show you the thing he loves most.”

“His boat?” She walked over to the side table and dropped her keys in the little bowl there then riffled through the mail. She tried to keep her tone nonchalant, but the truth was, she was kind of dying to grill her kid on everything he thought about Killian Jones.

“The ocean. He told me it’s the best and worst lover he’s ever had, and if he could live near it his whole life, he might be content.”

“Hmm. Sounds like him. What else does he say?”

“That Liam is obstinate. I had to look that one up. I told him you were like that, too.”

“Thanks.”

“I also told him that you don’t take shit from anyone.”

“Language.”

“There’s no other way to say that, Mom.”

“You could have told him that I’m a delight, and deserving of being showered with gifts on a daily basis.”

“I did.”

Emma looked up at that, somehow sensing Henry really had said those things. Was that why Killian had asked her out? Because Henry talked her up?

“What? It’s true.” Henry stood and came over, pecking her cheek and smiling sweetly. He looked so much like her little boy right then that she felt this rush of love course through her chest. 

“I also told him that you knew at least eighteen ways to put the hurt on a man who hurt you first.”

“Henry,” she laughed. “Go to bed. School in the morning.”

“Yeah, you, too,” he told her, heading toward the stairs and making his way up. He stopped halfway, turning to look at her over his shoulder. “I’m glad you went out with him, Mom.”

Again, Emma was hit by the significance of that, of Killian being pre-approved by the most important man in her life.

“Me, too, kid.”

* * *

The following day, Emma woke slightly exhausted but distinctly cheerful. She wondered at how tired she was and decided that she’d had a pretty intense couple of days. Hiking in the woods, tripping in the woods, hot man in the woods. Hot date with the hot man. It was a lot, especially for Emma’s boring life of late.

The way her body was beaming with energy despite her recent activity told her a lot--mostly that it was a good thing, so she decided to embrace it.

She stopped at Dopey’s for Liam’s bear claw as well as one for herself, hoping he would be in a better mood. Now that she knew something about Killian’s past, she thought she actually understood her partner a lot better. He was just worried about his brother, and he probably felt somewhat responsible for him. His protective nature suddenly made a lot more sense to her. 

_Ugh, I_ do _like Liam Jones_ , she realized with chagrin. She dumped his donut on his desk, trying to smile at him, but he looked grumpier than he had the day before.

 _I really should mention to Killian that he needs to talk to his brother_ , she thought, smiling at the realization that it was definitely something she could tell him. It was kind of weird acknowledging that--that maybe it wouldn’t be totally out of order for her to say that--but it was good, too. Is this what it’s like, being an adult with real adult feelings?

“Morning.”

“Hmph.”

When Jones’ mood hadn’t lifted by lunch, Emma was beginning to feel a little exasperated. Jones had barely acknowledged any of her sniping, and he hadn’t even cracked a smile when she stubbed her toe refilling her coffee for the third time that morning. Making a quick decision, she pulled out her phone and shot Killian a quick text.

_your brother’s a grump_

He was quick to respond, his answer arriving less than a minute later. 

**Oh? Probably my fault.**

_i think he needs to get laid_

**Ha! Don’t we all.** Emma’s cheeks flushed bright red at that. She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced up, noticing Jones looking away just as quickly. Great.

_i’ve tried almost everything to cheer him up (not THAT), i think i’ll try feeding him next_

**I’ll do it, Swan. Be there in twenty.**

Suddenly, the day was looking up.

Emma stood and dashed to the bathroom, feeling a little bit like the time she knew she was going to be asked to the junior prom. Like then, she shut the door and assessed her face, annoyed with her own stance on no make-up at work and reaching into her pocket for her ChapStick. Smearing it on, she pulled her hair out of its ponytail and tried fluffing it at the roots, but there was no helping it. That’s what she got for letting it dry like that. 

Sighing, she bit her lip and did a quick, sloppy braid that she knew made her look younger, softer. God, being a girl with a crush on a boy was so _lame_.

Exactly eighteen minutes later, the door to the station swung open and Killian Jones came striding in. 

Emma did her best not to react, so she clamped down on the sudden giddiness she felt in seeing him. He looked exactly like all the other times she’d seen him--jeans, tshirt, sweater. Hair like he’d just been, well. Out on a boat with the wind and salt whipping it around, making it stand somewhat on end. Flush in his cheeks. Only this time he was smiling, both with his mouth and his eyes--his entire body, really. Emma’s desk was closest to the door so he gave her his almost-wink, pausing so briefly she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been watching him so intently.

But, he seemed to be trying to keep things under wraps, which was just fine by her. He walked over to Jones and dropped a plain brown bag on his desk, a second clutched in his other hand. Jones looked up and narrowed his eyes at his brother, his lips in a prim line. Then he eyed the bag on his desk and reached out for it.

“What’s this, then?”

“I felt a disturbance in the Force, Liam. I didn’t save the Lady Swan over there,” and here he hiked a thumb over his shoulder in Emma’s direction, “just to have your mood souring her work day. So eat this lunch, and take pity on her.” Without smiling (though Emma could see a little bit of a twinkle in his eyes), Jones opened the bag and peered inside. 

“Is it--”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re a godsend sometimes, little brother.”

“Surely you mean _younger_ brother, Liam.”

“I say what I mean, lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

“Seems rude to exclude the deputy over there, little brother.”

“Younger.”

“Ruder.”

Killian turned and winked at her (almost winked), then walked over to her desk. He pulled up a chair and sat down directly across from her, producing the other bag.

“Your favorite, my lady.”

Emma reached for the bag and looked inside. Puzzled, she pulled out a plastic container and cracked the lid. A delicious and slightly familiar smell wafted up, making her smile before she recognized why.

“Beef stew,” he grinned. “Only I made this one. ‘Twas to be tonight’s dinner, but.” His voice dropped conspiratorially as he leaned forward. “It seemed an emergency, so I had to make a sacrifice.”

“You’re a good man, Killian Jones.”

His cheeky grin dropped down to an aw-shucks sort of smile. “I’m trying.”

“You’re succeeding,” she assured him, reaching automatically for the spoon he handed her. He pulled out another container and cracked it open, and together, they shared a lunch. His beef stew was actually delicious, much tastier than the one from their other night, and way less salty.

Emma got hit with a quick flash of feeding him with a spoon while wrapped in a sleeping bag without pants. She hoped the warmth from the stew was a serviceable excuse for the warmth she could feel spreading across her cheeks.

They didn’t speak much above him asking about her day and her responding quietly; she was keenly aware that Liam was across the station, doing his damnedest to not watch them like a hawk. She wondered if he was cottoning on to what was happening under his nose, and then she asked herself whether she cared.

No. Not really.

It seemed like barely any time had passed before they were finished, Killian taking the plastic container and spoon and then going over to collect Liam’s stuff. When he got there, Jones thanked him quietly, his eyes flickering over to Emma again before he spoke louder.

“Dinner at Granny’s later?”

“I--” Killian looked over his shoulder at her, raising his eyebrow. She could read him now, could tell he was asking permission, which seemed silly. Of course he should eat with his brother.

She could nurse the sinking in her stomach later with a cup o’noodles and her kid. She hadn’t acknowledged it until just that moment, but she’d kind of assumed she and Killian would be doing something later. _That’s crazy, we didn’t make plans_ , she told herself.

Which is what she texted to him later when he texted her an apology for accepting his brother’s invitation.

**Sorry, Swan. I need to make things right with my brother.**

_you don’t have to apologize to me, we never made plans or anything_

**Well, perhaps I’m angry with myself for not doing just that**

**I told you, I’m terrible at this**

_you brought me food, you’re not terrible at this_

**Yes, but i should have been clearer**

_we’re going to argue about this all night. we were going to do something this weekend?_

**I’d like to see you tomorrow as well, if that’s all right. But this weekend I wanted to take you somewhere nice, maybe keep you out past an acceptable hour?**

_i’d like that_ , she texted rapidly. She really did. Then-- _somewhere nice? is there somewhere nice in storybrooke?_

**I know just the place.**

_pizza at my house tomorrow? with my kid? not exciting, i know, but that’s all i got_

**I would be delighted.**

_be there at 6_

He was there at 5:57. Henry beat Emma to the door, swinging it open wide and grinning as Emma came skidding around the corner.

“Killian!”

“Lad. How was the paper?”

“B-plus. Hopper is harsh.”

“I told you to use the Hemingway quote.”

“You hate Hemingway.”

“True, but the man knew what to say about writing.”

“Hey, professor. Let the man in,” Emma laughed, feeling breathless when Killian looked over at her and grinned.

“Emma.”

“Hey.”

“How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Oh my god, you two are dumb. Come in, Killian. Now that you have the permission of the lady of the house, I can show you around.” Henry turned to Emma, saying in a loud whisper, “He always refused a tour because you weren’t home. I told him that was silly, but he insisted.”

“I maintain decorum always,” Killian said haughtily, and Henry laughed.

“Right. Whatever, this is the living room,” he said, pushing Killian toward the kitchen.

“I”ll just...order the pizzas,” Emma called out, shaking her head as she watched her kid and her...man friend scrutinize some old framed pictures of Emma and Henry feeding pigeons in Central Park and standing next to a hot dog cart and other still shots from their life back in New York. 

“Just sausage for me,” Killian said, rubbing his thumb over one of the pictures. 

“And pineapple.”

“You’re disgusting,” Emma told Henry, pulling out her phone and calling it in. Then Henry took Killian through the doorway to their kitchen, pointing out things he felt were important. Emma tried not to hyperventilate, but it was kind of huge.

They hadn’t let a man who wasn’t a coworker into their lives, ever. It had always been just the two of them, and now here was a man she was dying to kiss being led around their little house while her son showed him paintings he’d made in kindergarten and Emma’s sad attempts at home decor. It was...surreal. Nerve-wracking. Wonderful.

The pizza arrived and the three of them sprawled out on the couch, paper plates balanced on their laps as they watched _Iron Man 2_ (”you’ve never seen it?” “I was overseas, all I saw was the ocean and men cursing at each other on a flight deck for months at a time”). Killian sat in the middle, one arm behind the couch where Emma was sitting. She kept darting glances over to Henry to see how he felt about that, but to his credit, Henry kept staring intently at the television, all of his attention on that and his pizza. 

When the movie ended, Killian said something about the tide waiting for no man and he’d have to be up early, but he’d enjoyed himself immensely and next time, burgers were on him.

Emma closed the door, feeling floaty and good, especially when Killian had licked his lips slightly before glancing at her mouth. _I swear, I’m going to spontaneously combust soon._

“Gees, Ma. He’s going to think you don’t like him if you don’t even kiss him good-bye.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, turning after the door had closed and they’d heard Killian drive away. “What would you know about it?”

“Please. I can read you two like a book. You should see how you look at each other.”

“How’s that?” Emma walked over and slung her arm over his shoulder, leading them to the food mess so they could clean up before he went up to shower.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” he said. 

* * *

That Saturday, Killian took her out to a cute little Italian place near the harbor. She’d worn her girliest pink dress and gone all out with makeup, he’d arrived in a leather jacket looking so good she wished she’d shaved everywhere, but she knew it was too early for that. 

God, why was that again?

She found herself asking this same question the next night when he came over to watch the fourth (fifth?) _Die Hard_ , when she’d started to droop a little bit and had ended up cuddling into his side while his arm came over her shoulders, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair as they watched. Henry had gone to bed early, giving her a meaningful look as he slunk up the stairs, and she chuckled at his machinations. 

“Something funny?” Killian murmured, his eyes on the screen.

“Nothing,” she smiled, turning back--not to look at the tv, but at the side of his face. He turned to look at her, his eyes slowly caressing every inch of hers. 

“Nothing, hmm? You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t wish it.”

The thought of telling him that Henry thought they ought to be kissing made her grin. She shook her head, blinking slowly and practically feeling her eyes light up. 

Killian raised both brows and smirked at her. “What’s the matter, love? Think I can’t handle it?” He’d become increasingly flirty with her since they’d started...dating, and Emma really liked it. He was a flirt from the beginning, but now he seemed more confident about it--or maybe more confident that she received it well. And she gave it back, too, touching him whenever she could. He was definitely receptive to it, but he never took advantage, knowing not to take it too far. It was like he really could read her, knew that she didn’t want to just jump into anything. It was kind of amazing, this power--knowing that she could touch him and he just accepted it, and took what she gave him. 

Problem was, she was pretty sure she was ready to give more.

“I know you couldn’t.” She licked her lips, wanting to give in to every damned urge her body was screaming at her to take. So, without thinking too hard about it, Emma surged forward, grabbing at his sweater and bringing him toward her. He laughed, surprised but going with it, expelling breath when their lips met.

And _oh_.

Emma had been wondering what it would be like to kiss him for days (okay, since they’d met), and it was good. Sweet at first, a simple pressing of lips as his laughter faded to silence. Emma’s eyes closed and she didn’t move, enjoying the feeling of his mouth against hers; when she went to take a breath she shifted a little, feeling the softness, thinking her lips were too dry so she went to moisten them and grinned when his breathing hitched. And like that, it was on. His lips parted, hers parting with them, his tongue flicking out as hers must have and then she was opening her mouth, their tongues meeting gently, slowly; her jaw dropped as she opened wider, more; she wanted _more_. 

She pulled him closer, impatient to feel him against her. His arms came around her, one hand settling at the small of her back and the other running up and through her hair, his hand clasping the back of her neck, gently turning her head as he deepened the kiss. His mouth was a sensual thing, closing around her bottom lip, his tongue against it as he slowly drew back before he went back in, meeting her again and again. Emma felt like she was falling and then she did fall, her back hitting the sofa cushion, Killian huffing as he broke his own fall, landing on top of her, his lips still pressed against hers. 

Emma shifted, one leg splaying out over the side of the couch, the other bent at the knee, cradling him between them. He pulled back at that, looking at her seriously. He pulled his hand from behind her back and brushed her hair away where it lay tangled across her face. 

“That was....”

“Not over yet.”

“All right.”

He grinned, leaning down again, only this time, his entire body was pressed against hers, and she was starting to wonder whether this was the best plan with her kid upstairs. _What the fuck ever_ , she thought idly, and then she didn’t think at all.

He still had one hand behind her neck, but the other started moving as he leaned down to kiss her again. He started slow, nipping gently at first her upper lip then the lower, his fingers coming up to brush at her cheek. He ran his thumb along her jaw until it stopped at her chin, then he pressed down gently, opening her mouth wider so he could sweep his tongue in. It felt like a devouring, a really great one. She kissed him back, gasping when his body began a slow roll against hers, feeling her muscles tense and relax and yearn for more, more of it. He pulled her lip between his teeth and bit down gently, soothing with his tongue as he pulled away. That sent a flurry of tingles straight down to where he was pressing between her legs, and she knew she either had to stop or never, ever stop.

“Emma,” he said, strangled, pulling back and gasping for breath. “Emma, we need to--”

“I know,” she sighed, reaching up to scratch through his beard. 

“Not that I want to stop,” he said, smiling and lifting himself up on his arms. If she had done that, she would have buckled, but he seemed to do it so easily, and she wondered if he could do like, a thousand push-ups. Just thinking about how hard and tight his arms must look under his sweater made her want to drag him back down again. 

“Yeah, I think you should go,” she whispered regretfully. “Before we end up pantsless again.” He chuckled, and she could feel the rumble through his chest all the way down to her toes. 

He sat back and reached out, pulling her up, laughing as he reached out to smooth her hair. 

“I can’t believe we just made out on my couch.”

“I can’t believe it took this long.”

“Yeah, well.” She smiled, taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She appreciated his restraint, and also hated it. But it was just a little too much, too fast. Emma had too many things going on--she had a _kid_ \--and she couldn’t just jump into bed with every hot guy who came around. _Even though this one seems unlikely to bolt_ , she added in her mind, knowing with every brain cell she had that it was true. 

She swayed toward him, kissing him lightly; a simple brushing of their lips. Then she pulled back, looking into his eyes and seeing a thousand things there--desire, blazing hot; longing, which she felt big time. Understanding.

“Be patient,” she whispered, wondering which one of them she was saying it to. He smiled. He lifted her hand and kissed her wrist again, _god_.

“Worth the wait,” he told her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for joining me on this ride! come say hi on tumblr, i'm this-too-too-sullied-flesh. also please note the change in rating from mature to explicit; it gets a lil bit graphic there at the end.

The wait was slowly killing her. **  
**

Emma didn’t know what it was, but she was simply unable to cut herself some slack. She was holding out, and she didn’t really know why. Killian was doing as she asked, being patient, and the longer she spent time with him, the more it became this thing. Like, she was a masochist or something, trying to see how long she could hold out, and kind of hoping that he’d snap or she’d snap, but he was doing exactly what a good man would do: he was present, and he was letting her lead. 

_What the fuck is my problem_ , she asked herself, her back to her own door and her heart beating crazy-fast as she felt her body trying to chase the guy she’d just said good night to for what must have been the hundredth time, each night like the night before that. But really, she knew what her problem was--if she allowed more, then it would turn into something _more_ , and she just didn’t know how to feel about that.

There she was, secretly dating the hottest guy in town--well, okay. It wasn’t a secret, not really; not if the way various townsfolk smirked at her whenever she walked by was any indication. But for some reason, that kind of infuriated her--the constant but silent scrutiny, like they were waiting for…..what, she didn’t know. Something. Granny’s knowing looks over her glasses, David glowering one time when he’d come over with the baby and Killian had answered the door. Henry telling her the girls at school were “super duper jealous that my mom is seeing the hot boat guy.” Storybrooke was suffocating her, and Emma always had been a little prone to drowning when it came to relationships.

She wasn’t going to let it get to her, though. Not the town or her own crap. She simply...needed time. But it would sure be easier if she didn’t feel the eyes of everyone on her all the time, even if Killian seemed blithely unaware of it.

When she and Henry had first moved to Storybrooke, it hadn’t taken two weeks before the entire town knew the shallow details of her story--teen mom, the dad took off. She nearly took the fall for his thieving, turned to the bail bonds business when it turned out she had a knack for sniffing out dirtbags and could make her own schedule, which was essential when having a small, precocious child in tow. Closed off, hard to know, didn’t want or need a man; liked crappy food and refused to let her stupid car die. The town knew her kid was a smart one, but also a kind and generous old soul; it hadn’t taken long for the denizens of Storybrooke, Maine, to claim Emma and Henry as their own, and in turn, they gave themselves over to the town, which meant occasionally starring at the center of its drama. Like the time Henry’s science project had nearly burned down the junior high’s math and science wing. Or when one of Emma’s old bounties had come looking for her, and Jones and David had rushed over to rough him up just as Emma landed a solid kick to his groin right in front of Granny’s. 

Yeah, Storybrooke made everyone else’s business their own, but when it came to the fact that their favorite adopted daughter was dating the handsome stranger who haunted the docks and never mingled with anyone else, they were oddly silent. At least around her. But she often got the feeling that people had just finished talking about her (them), their eyes landing on everything but hers whenever she entered an eatery or went to the grocery store. She didn’t know what was worse--the knowing smirks or the shifty-eyed fake nonchalance.

Eventually, Emma had learned that no one in town really knew the details of Killian’s past. What they lacked in information, however,, they filled in with speculation, but Emma was able to discard and refute the more outlandish stories, like that he’d killed a man or that he’d turned smuggler at some point. They knew he was a Marine, they knew he was Liam’s brother. They knew Liam had practically raised him, and they knew both of them had been in America longer than they’d ever lived in England. That was it. Liam, they knew all about; that he liked his eggs poached (gross), that he was a lightweight when it came to drinking, that he’d dated his high school sweetheart until she’d broken up with him the night he left for the Navy and then married his best friend. They knew he was friendly, told terrible dad jokes, was a dog person, preferred bar soap to body wash, was allergic to beets, saw every animated movie the weekend it came out, and had a tendency to tease his fellow deputy every chance he got. These were things that were known about Liam.

Nothing detailed with Killian. But Emma knew.

She’d found out over steak and beers that he didn’t like condiments, preferring his food “as God intended.” That he, too, was allergic to beets. That he could speak a smattering of French, but was fluent in Spanish. That he had seven tattoos, “and if you’re lucky, one day, you’ll get to see all of them.” That when he teased a woman, he got this certain twinkle in his eye. That he owned every single Clint Eastwood western on dvd, and every Disney classic on Blu-Ray. That he sucked at first person shooters (much to Henry’s continual disappointment). That he’d had chicken pox three times as a child. That his accent got thicker and his voice got lower when he was kissing and kissing and kissing.

Kissing. That’s all they’d done. Well, kissing and rounding second base. Killian was, after all, a gentleman.

It had been seven weeks of just kissing. Well, and wandering hands.

It was her fault. She was holding out.

Emma was going to die.

* * *

“Shall I stop by later?” he murmured across the table. Emma darted her eyes at Mary Margaret, who was sitting next to him and across from her at a table in Granny’s. It was about as public as Emma got--sharing meals with him in Granny’s, since she figured the old woman knew anyway, even if she never actually said anything about it. That afternoon they’d been sitting together when Mary Margaret came bustling in with her stroller, plopping down and helping herself to Killian’s fries. In the beginning, Emma had been surprised to one day find the two of them having lunch together; she assumed Mary Margaret had decided to take Killian up once she’d learned that he and Emma were spending time together.

“Yeah, Henry’s staying with Tyler tonight.”

“He’s been doing that a lot lately.”

“He says _Call of Duty_ is much better when you can watch the whites of their eyes as they sit next to you.”

“Mercenary.” Killian grinned and stood, snatching the bill before Emma could react and walking over to the cashier to pay. Mary Margaret moved over to his recently vacated spot, shushing the baby by rolling the stroller back and forth when he started fussing.

“So.” Mary Margaret leaned over and pinched one of the extra pickles that Killian hadn’t eaten and munched on it thoughtfully before speaking again. “Is it good?”

“Is what good?” Emma asked, distracted as she answered a text from Jones, informing him she’d come back to the station when she was good and ready. 

“Killian. You know. The sex?”

“What? Oh my God.”

“I still haven’t gotten clearance from the doctor. One more week, I hope. I’m dying here.”

“You’re not the only one,” Emma muttered, not looking at her friend, the Mom Friend.

“What does that mean?” Mary Margaret laughed before her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Emma. Emma, wait. Are you telling me that you guys haven’t--”

“Shh!”

“Deputy Swan. How?” She leaned toward Emma, her brows arched high. Emma wanted to swat at her, to make her stop. “I mean. Have you _seen_ him?” Emma put her head in her hands and slumped to the table. “Furthermore, have you seen how he looks at you? You should see how you look at him. The way you guys are always undressing each other with your eyes, I just assumed--”

“I will give you a thousand bucks if you shut up right now.”

“No deal. What’s the hold-up? Wait. It’s gotta be him, right? Because you look like you’re ready to run after him right now.”

“I _feel_ like I’m ready to run after him right now.”

“Okay,” Mary Margaret said doubtfully. “Then what is it, are the rumors true? Did he really lose his--”

“The rumors are not true. Wait, what rumor is that?”

“Don’t change the subject. What’s the deal?  Are you waiting for marriage? Because I’m pretty sure he’s--” _Oh, God_. 

“I’m not waiting for marriage.” The thought made her want to throw up, but she couldn’t tell if it was in denial or...something else. She shook it from her head; one step at a time, right?

“I was joking about your non-existent virtue, Emma. What is up with you lately?”

“Nothing. Everything.”  Emma sighed, finally lifting her face to look at her friend. “It’s...I don’t know.”

“I had David underneath me after three days.”

“Thank you for that image.”

Mary Margaret grinned before her smile dropped into something more wistful. “God, I miss sex.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“So, I ask again: why are you holding out on your boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend,” Emma scoffed, then turned her thoughts inward. Boyfriend? Oh God, he was totally her boyfriend!

“Manfriend, then,” Mary Margaret declared. She stood and pushed the stroller forward, looking at Emma fondly. “You’re the bravest person I know, Emma. When it comes to being a warrior woman. But you’re kind of afraid of intimacy. It’s okay. If I can see it, Killian definitely does, too. But do me a favor?” Emma nodded, prodding the woman to continue. “Get on that. He looks like a good time.” Then she grinned and left, hopefully before noticing that Emma had flushed from head to toe.

 _It’s not like she’s wrong_ , Emma thought glumly, poking at the last onion ring on her plate.

As she finished out her work day, she was distracted, asking herself why it was she hadn’t slept with him yet. After that first hot makeout session on her couch, she’d found herself daydreaming about him constantly--about what he’d look like above her and under her, about the things he might say in the moment. She wanted that, she really did; but something about it terrified her, and it took a few weeks before she could admit what it was.

All the other guys she’d ever been with--the one exception being Neal--had been temporary. The scratched itches. Her few concessions to needing to feel wanted, even if only for one night. It was like Neal had ruined her, and not because he’d been spectacular, even though he had been good. Easy to be with after the first few times.  All of the guys that had followed had simply been there, a parade of forgettable experiences, some of them great, none of them anything she’d wanted to repeat. 

Killian was not one of those experiences. She’d known that from the day they met. 

She had asked herself over and over again as she said good night to him why she didn’t just get it over with, get the awkwardness out of the way so that they could settle into the comfort of an actual relationship. And each time he left her at the end of the night, she could feel her entire body sizzling with the pent-up hunger he built up with every touch, with every kiss, with every reverent word murmured into her neck. And she could feel it coming from him in waves, his body hard against hers, moving with barely-controlled restraint.

She knew it was only a matter of time before they both snapped. She couldn’t wait for it, and she also kept pushing it away. Because that was the thing.

When it happened, that would be it. She’d be with him, completely. She was terrified that she was falling for him. 

_What if he didn’t feel the same way?_

She knew that wasn’t true. She knew that. At least, she thought she knew.

That was her real problem. She didn’t know for sure. So, she kept letting herself kiss him and lust after him, but she couldn’t bring herself to take that next step.

And he let her do that. He was so fucking patient with her; sometimes she wished he’d get annoyed or force the issue, but he never did. It was everything she needed, that patience of his, and it was simultaneously infuriating.

But, Emma didn’t know what to do about it, so she just kept on seeing him every single day and letting him feed her and tease her movie choices and be really fucking great to her kid. And kiss her until she thought she was going to melt into her couch, or in one of their cars, or, like the night before, against her door.

“You’re scowling.”

“Am not.” Emma looked up and glared at Jones, forcing her mouth to a straight line so she didn’t actually scowl at him. She had noticed he’d been nicer to her lately, and she wondered if it was because she was dating his brother or some other reason. They’d never talked about it, which was totally stupid, but then again, her relationship with Jones was kind of immature. She sighed, knowing by now that he was only like that because he cared, so Emma decided to be nice to him for once.

“Okay, I kind of was.” She almost took it back when he smiled in delight, looking like a picture Killian had shown her of the the two of them when they were younger and had just caught their first fish. “Hey, Jones?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you, uh. You know I’m seeing your brother, right?”

“What? Swan.” He looked appalled, his hand coming up and clutching at his neck. “Have you taken his virtue? Do I need to call you out? I won’t challenge you to pistols because you’re better than me, but how about swords? I could easily procure them from Gold’s, he has a set of fine-looking--”

“Shut up.”

“Right.” He grinned, dropping his hand before leaning back in his chair. “Yes, I put two and two together, especially after he came home one night with his hair standing in five different directions and a smile like he’d just made the game-winning kick at a--”

“Does he talk about me?” she interrupted, not wanting any sports metaphors. Jones was fond of them, and she couldn’t possibly care less about “real football.”

“Shall I pass him a note in algebra?”

“Oh, forget about it.”

“No, no,” he said hurriedly, coming forward so abruptly he nearly toppled off his chair. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah.” No _._

“I--you can talk to me, you know. About...Killian.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Then why did you ask?” he grumbled, looking disgruntled. 

“I’m not sure.”

“Listen. You’ve no need to confide in me, but may I offer a piece of advice regarding my brother?”

“Sure.” Emma tried to look nonchalant, but she was eager to hear whatever it was Jones had to say, which was a first for her. She was so desperate to dig herself out of her sexless hole that she’d listen to _anyone_ at this point.

“My brother doesn’t love by halves, Emma,” he said seriously, making sure he had eye contact before continuing. Love? Who said anything about love? When she returned his steady gaze, he went on. “He is fierce, and he is loyal. When he gives his heart over, it’s irrevocable. If you’re not there, that’s fine. But don’t lead him on a merry dance. I won’t have it.”

“Are you trying to tell me to stay away from your brother, Jones?” Emma sounded amused, but her heart was drumming deep echoes into her chest. 

“On the contrary.” He stood and started putting on his coat, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. “I’ve already seen it on his face. Whether he realizes is a mystery, for we haven’t talked about it, despite my best efforts. I’ve let him be, because I’ve no wish to irritate him to permanent silence again. That’s fine; I’m not the one he ought to talk to. So that’s my other advice. Talk to him. Whatever it is that’s got you so tightly strung these days, talk to him. He’ll listen because he wants to.” With that confusing piece of advice, Jones took off, and Emma was left to ponder what he’d just said.

An hour or so later, Emma was waiting for Killian to arrive, some fresh Chinese take-out spread out on her coffee table. When he knocked, she hollered for him to let himself in, not looking at him until he plopped himself next to her on the couch. She didn’t want to seem too eager to see him, didn’t want him to know how desperately she craved his looks and his touches and his lips and just...him.

As they sat on her couch, eating directly from the cartons, Emma started to get nervous. She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she knew that she was definitely going to say it, because she couldn’t keep going on as she was. Something needed to happen, and it needed to happen soon.

“So, what are we?”

Atta girl.

Killian stuck his chopsticks straight up and down in the lo mien before tilting his head to look at her. He squinted one eye before chucking his chin at her carton.

“Is that the shrimp?”

Emma nodded, biting her lip while feeling like she was going to maybe throw up or throw the food at his handsome face. Then she saw how his eyes were twinkling at her, so she narrowed her eyes and picked out a shrimp, holding it up to his mouth, and if she smeared a little bit of the sauce across his lips before he successfully got the shrimp in, well. He deserved it.

He stuck the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth and then seemed to think better of licking it clean, leaning forward and kissing her soundly. He pulled away, his face serious, but there was that damned twinkle again. Emma licked her lips, shaking her head and chuckling.

“Liam’s been referring to you as my mean girlfriend for weeks now. Was that, perhaps, jumping to conclusions?”

“Oh,” she said stupidly. Then, “Yeah. I mean, no. Not at all. You’re my--yeah. I mean, I’m not seeing anyone else, so--”

“Nor I.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.” He grinned and turned back to his noodles, and Emma felt stupidly pleased. What was she, sixteen?

Well, the way they went at it on the couch later  sure made it seem like it. When whatever movie it was (she really wasn’t paying attention) ended, the music in the credits fading to nothing, his heavy breathing and her soft gasps the only sounds in the whole house, her hands at the back of his neck, her thighs straddling his lap, his hands infuriatingly not moving as they lightly held onto the belt loops at the back of her waist, Emma was thinking that it might be an excellent time to take it one step further. She dragged one hand from his hair, following along the curve of his neck, her fingers dancing at the hollow in his throat before curving into his skin and raking down. His sharp inhale was delicious as she reached into his shirt, continuing down, the crispness of his chest hair pleasant against her fingertips. Finally, _finally_ his hands started to move lower, brushing across her back pockets before squeezing lightly, and she felt this intense joy bursting under her skin. Was this it? Was tonight the night?

That’s when her phone rang, shrill and out of place in the near-silence of her house. The landline, too, which no one ever called except in emergency. Or telemarketers. If it was a telemarketer, she was going to find them and shoot them.

“I can let it go to voicemail,” she said desperately, the both of them panting into each other’s mouths.

“ _You’ve reached the Swans. Leave a message or call our cell phones. If it’s an emergency, call the Sheriff’s department_ ,” came Henry’s voice with Emma’s background voice hollering, “ _Don’t tell them that!_ ” And as if that wasn’t enough of a buzzkill--her kid’s real time voice while she was sitting in a man’s lap--”Ma, sorry, you didn’t pick up your cell. I have to come home, Tyler got in trouble for downloading some, um. Contraband. I swear, I didn’t watch it, but now his mom is yelling, and I just wanted to warn you that I’ll be home in like ten minutes, just in case you were, you know, occupied. Bye.”

“Fuck,” Emma laughed. She pulled back slightly, making a face because _fuck_. She started to laugh, the thought occurring to her that at least Henry had called first, when she sucked in a breath. As Killian met her eyes, she saw a tiny, momentary flash of something that thrilled her down to the core. 

Impatience.

Emma leaned down and put her lips to his ear, whispering a very sincere “sorry” before dismounting. They had been interrupted before, often by her kid, once by Jones, all by a loud coughing or the prolonged jangling of the door knob to announce their presence. Killian had laughed uneasily along with her, straightening his clothes and walking to the door with a look of reluctance. As she stood up now, watching him, she looked for that sincere regret in his face, like he didn’t want to be leaving.

She didn’t see that as she followed him to her door. He opened it and then turned, his hand still on the knob. He reached out with his other hand and Emma took it, a little confused. He drew her toward him and stopped her just before their bodies could touch. His jaw was clenched tight as he pierced her with some serious intensity.

“Tomorrow. We’re going out.” He kissed the back of her hand and was gone.

As Emma lay in bed that night, replaying that exact moment over and over, she couldn’t help grinning. The soft command in his voice was fairly clear: he was done waiting.

Thank God.

* * *

  


Emma had no idea what the plan was, but she was oddly calm the entire day. Henry had seemed perplexed when he got home, asking her where Killian was. 

“Uh, he went home,” she said, well aware she was red in the face.

“Oh. I thought--you know, it’s okay if he stays over, Mom,” he told her, kissing her cheek before heading for bed.

“You sure about that, kid?”

“No. But he makes you happy, so. I figure we should keep him.” Then he smiled at her and turned to head upstairs. 

Emma felt pretty fine about all of it. Even as she drove two towns over to make a very specific purchase at a drug store, Emma was fine. Mechanical, almost, going through the motions of “I may get laid” body preparation and choosing her underwear and bra with care. She sent Killian a _what time?_ text that was promptly answered with **7** , nothing more. So, Emma was ready by exactly 6:58, which was when he knocked on the door. 

Emma had been making it a study to figure out his moods--he revealed so much with his eyes, even though she wasn’t often sure what it was. She could tell this time, though; that look of impatience was back, as well as what she was pretty sure was hunger. It wasn’t at all threatening and was, in fact, pretty damned thrilling.

Barely speaking, he drove her out toward the harbor, and his near-silence was filling the Bronco with thick tension, the best kind. The kind that made her want to yank on the shifter to make him pull over so she could jump on him. The kind that made her feel like her thighs were tingling, and the only way to relieve it was to rub them together. The kind that made her wonder what would happen if she touched his hand as he drove. 

“How was your day, love?” he said as he led her from his car. They’d arrived dockside, and Emma figured they were going to eat on the boat again. They’d done it a few times in the intervening weeks since their first date, but one time had been a Sunday, and Henry was with them. The other two times they’d gotten rained out, so they hadn’t necessarily recreated the magic of that first date. 

Emma wondered whether that would change tonight.

“Fine,” she said softly, following as he led her on board. 

He was more like himself during their simple meal of sandwiches. He’d taken the boat out, still staying within the Storybrooke Harbor proper but far enough away that the only sounds were the gentle splashing of the waves and the occasional gust of wind. Emma listened to Killian speak, his gentle accent much more pronounced, like it generally was when it was just the two of them. They were sitting side by side, their feet propped up on the rail next to each other, like before. He was holding her hand and playing with her fingers absently, tapping them with his or drumming his fingertips across her knuckles as he spoke. The warm touch was driving her crazy. His hands were coarse, calloused; she could only recall men with soft hands, gentle hands. He wasn’t like those men.

Would he be rough? God, she hoped so.

She was almost startled when he was right there suddenly, leaning toward her and kissing right at her ear. Usually, he was--not necessarily cautious, but not aggressive, either. This was neither of those things, but somewhere in between. Emma sucked in a breath at the teasing sensation of his breath brushing against the delicate skin of her neck. 

“Sorry, love,’ he murmured, his lips touching her skin and sending sparks down her spine. “I kept getting whiffs of whatever it is that makes you smell like that, and I couldn’t help myself.”

“I have a confession to make,” she said breathlessly, grinning as he continued to nose around in her hair.

“Most women do,” he breathed into her ear, the sound of it making little tickles of sensation thrill along her neck.

“I like you,” she said softly, closing her eyes and clamping down on the crazy clenching of her thighs. His movements were just so purposeful, so assured; his confidence was one of the most attractive things about him. He chuckled into her ear, the sound warm and tantalizing, his cheek brushing hers, his scruff tickling her face.

“I think I more than like you, love. We’re more than two ships passing in the night.”

“Passing closely?” she said, trying to sound teasing but she feared it sounded needy. Well, hell. She _was_ needy.

“I rather hope so.” He kissed her softly, not quite at her mouth, not quite pulling away, his lips lingering on her skin.

Just as Emma was trying to decide whether she should start touching him--because no way would she be able to stop once she got started--he kissed the corner of her jaw and then nosed lower, his breath hot and making her shiver, mouthing barely-there kisses down her neck as he slowly rubbed circles with his thumb in her palm. The dual sensations were so good that she moaned very, very softly.

That made him pull back. For a half-second she thought he’d changed his mind, but then she looked up and caught his eye. This time what she saw there made her gasp. Dark desire, and when coupled with the tightness in his jaw, she recognized it as a man pushed to the limit.

And yet he wasn’t moving, looking at her so hard it took her breath away, still being patient, still respecting her.

Well, Emma was done with that.

She snapped. And so did he.

He surged forward the moment she did, reaching out as her hands grappled with his shirt, pulling him down to her, their lips hitting hard as she kissed him. His tongue was on hers, sweeping across it as she gave it back to him, tasting his grunt when her nails dug into his chest.

She pulled back and managed to say, “Take us back home.”

“Home?” he chuckled, standing and pulling her with him. “Is the evening ending already?”

“No, I just--” She leaned closer to him. “I’m getting tired of waiting.” She stood on her toes to kiss him, but he stopped her by leaning his head back and fixing her with this arrogant, lascivious look.

“There’s a bed on this boat, Emma.” He cocked an eyebrow and she could do nothing but grin.

“Oh yeah?”

He responded by standing and taking her hand. She followed him, her legs practically dancing with excitement as she felt this build-up in her body, her inner muscles pulsing insistently as she walked. 

They went the short distance below to small quarters lit by a soft sconce next to the bed. It was barely enough to fit one person, but it’s not like they were there to play cards.

Hit by a flurry of anticipation and nerves, Emma stood there hesitantly, not knowing what to do. She waited until he turned around to face her, his face less tense than it had been a only moment before (and really, for weeks now).

Slowly, reverently, he reached out and gently clasped the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pulled her toward him.

“Emma,” he whispered just before he reached her mouth. He kissed her softly, no tongue or desperation, his lips dragging against hers, lush and slow and wet. She wanted to cry, he was so good and so not doing anything else. Her hands returned to their spot from before, just along the edge of his button-down, her fingertips digging into his skin. She felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her into him, and she reveled in the solidity of his body, in his closeness.

Without realizing it, her fingers had managed to loosen his top button. His shirt opened a little, her hands encountering more of the soft skin and taut muscle of his torso. As he continued his kisses, she pulled down more, freeing another button.

He paused, chuckling open-mouthed into her, and she popped open another button. And another. And then the last and his laugh turned to a gasp when she pulled the shirt free from being tucked; he pulled away and then his shirt was off and hers was being pulled over her head, his mouth hot and insistent on hers as they went for each other’s pants, her fingers clumsy over his belt buckle as he made quick work unbuttoning the top of her jeans. 

Emma started moving closer, wanting to feel him against her, laughing when he stumbled a little. They ended up shuffling toward the only destination in the small cabin--the bed--and when he stopped suddenly, Emma crashed into him fully, trapping his hands at her zipper. Grinning, she shoved him with her entire body, knocking him down until he was sprawled back on his elbows, his legs hanging off the side, his knees carelessly open and inviting.

Very slowly and deliberately, she made a great show of reaching behind her back, loosening the hooks on her bra one by one, smirking when one of the straps fell down her arm and his eyes were drawn by the movement for a moment before returning avidly to her breasts. When she got to the last hook she leaned forward a little, her hair falling around her face as she let the bra fall down her arms to land across his thighs. She looked up and god, that look again--the intensity, his jaw rigid as he swallowed thickly, his eyes trained on her bare chest.

She straightened, her hands going to her hips, her thumbs hooking in her waistband and lowering her jeans. She loosened her boots, kicking out of first them then her pants, leaving her standing in just a really great pair of simple, black underwear. She felt confident; she knew she looked good, and seeing it reflect in the desire in his eyes made her feel powerful, like she was doing exactly what she needed and wanted to be doing.

She kneeled down, her face at level with his body, watching him watch her as she put her hands on his knees. She ran her palms down his calves, feeling him flexing beneath her, reaching his boots and picking at the laces. Remembering a time when he’d done the same for her, she loosened his boots and took them off, smiling when the corner of his mouth lifted, knowing he was remembering the same thing.

She stood again, reaching out to take his pants off, too, because she really needed him to not be wearing pants, but he sat up and she was briefly mesmerized by the taut definition of his abs as he did so. 

He leaned forward the scant few inches separating them, his face directly between the heavy sway of her breasts. Emma held her breath as he breathed across her skin, her nipples tightening near to painful as he simply held himself there, his lips almost touching her, the soft heat from his mouth driving her crazy. Then she felt his hands at her hips and before she could press herself against his face, he was lowering himself again, pulling her down with him, his back resting on the bed as she straddled his thighs. His hands still at her waist, he squeezed with his fingers and tugged her toward him until she had to move, her knees inching forward on either side of his chest. Once there he stopped pulling and simply rested his arms along her thighs, his hands relaxing at her hips. 

She tucked her hair behind her ears and licked her lips; what a _delicious_ position, perched on his chest and looking down at him from above. In any other situation she’d think he looked angry with the way his brows were drawn tight and the way his eyes looked dark and assessing. She felt warm, her skin hot where it touched his, sitting on the hard muscles of his chest.

She smiled, tremulous, overwhelmed because this was happening, _finally_ , and she breathed deep and happy, settling in for whatever was going to happen. She knew him but she didn’t _know_ him, and she figured once they got over the awkwardness of a first time with him that all the other times would be great.

Something deep down inside of her--somewhere next to where her inner muscles were clenching and fluttering--told her that it wasn’t going to be awkward. Hot and heavy, yeah; awkward, no. 

He moved his hands then, slowly at first, his fingertips rough up her back. When he got to her shoulder blades he shifted direction, bringing his palms under her arms until they brushed along the sides of her breasts. He kept going until his thumbs just barely brushed against her nipples, and the sensation was so sharp and hitting her right down where she was clenching that she thrust her hips forward ever-so-slightly, but the movement was enough to draw his attention. His gaze flickered to between her legs and didn’t leave. His hands kept moving, though, caressing softly, cupping the fullness of her breasts, his palms pressing against her nipples, the callouses hard and glorious. She closed her eyes, gasping softly as he rubbed circles there, the twin sensations running tingles all the way down until she was shifting against him, desperate for some friction, only there was none.

He chuckled darkly and that made her open her eyes; she looked down to where he was touching her, biting her lip and wondering if she looked too desperate. She looked up and he held her stare, squeezing briefly before trailing his hands down, fingers grazing the tips of her breasts as they went, his nails digging into her flesh as they scratched down the plane of her belly, his fingertips catching on the edge of her underwear. 

He rested his palms atop her thighs, his thumbs sweeping down and between, almost brushing the black fabric but not quite. He was still looking at her and she at him, her mouth open now, her breaths jagged and fast. He kept her gaze, not moving except for the lightest touch on the skin of her inner thighs, and she pressed her hips forward slightly to see if she could move things along. 

He lifted one eyebrow and then the corner of his lip, sneering slightly as he finally, _blessedly_ slid his palms up. One kept going, moving along the curve of her hip until his fingers curled there, anchoring her in place. The other hand moved down and in between, and then with the very tips of his fingers brushed over the front of her underwear.

She expelled her breath and tilted her head back, her eyelids fluttering at the sensation. Tentative at first, he simply pressed into the fabric, and Emma realized by his touch that she was already incredibly wet. Not at all embarrassed, she smiled at the ceiling, moaning when he increased pressure, his fingers pressing into the seam of her, rubbing slightly as her hips danced around them. She leaned back farther, bringing her arms behind her to brace on his thighs as he continued to touch, to feel, to rub wider circles until she could feel the warm rough touch of his skin against her heated flesh. 

Then she felt him hook her underwear to the side and his other hand joined in, one finger brushing with the barest touch down the length of her.

“So pretty,” he murmured, and she felt herself grinning. 

“Pretty?” she asked the ceiling.

“Incredibly.”

She opened her mouth to retort and ended up gasping, his finger pressing into her flesh, slick and wet as he increased the pace. Light and slow then long and deep, he touched her as she moved her hips in tight thrusts counter to the movements of his fingers. Emma could feel herself winding up, soft sensations she wanted to chase so she did, squeezing her muscles and desperately wanting him to put his fingers inside. She began squeezing his thighs, feeling the burn in her arms with the strain of remaining upright but she didn’t care, it felt too good, _he_ felt too good. 

She shifted slightly, bringing herself a little more upright so she could work on his pants while he worked her thoroughly. Trying to be careful, she lowered his zipper slightly, feeling how hard and big he was as her hand brushed against him. When she’d almost gotten the zipper down she gave into the urge to palm his erection and when she did, he groaned, loud and delicious, and then he stopped his fingers abruptly.

Next thing she knew, Emma was being lifted and then she was on her back and he was kissing her, his mouth hot and desperate and opening hers wide. His tongue swept in and she shifted to accommodate his body between her legs, her knees bending up, her pelvis shifting upward, seeking friction, seeking him.

He pushed himself up on his arms and when she looked into his eyes she saw that he was lost, that he was in it; he got to his knees and was off the bed with his pants off before she could so much as blink. 

“Commando?” The raspiness of her voice didn’t surprise her at all.

“Marine.”

He grinned, dark and menacing and then he was back on her and god, he was big, he was rubbing against her and it just felt so damned good she wanted to cry and she cried out. She felt him pull at the hem of her underwear impatiently so she lifted her hips up and he sat back to yank them off. Before she could get her legs back down he was on her again and he was right there and she just shifted, the tip of him sliding along her wetness and they both gasped, him ending on a hiss as he pulled back but _no_ , she chased him and he was there, right in her. She looked up at him and with a look of almost apology he slid in farther, thick and full, almost too full, slow and tight and so, so, good. 

She lowered her legs but he caught one of them under the knee, holding it up to brace himself as he shifted, settling in until he was fully seated. He took a deep breath and bowed his head before raising it to meet her eyes.

“Emma,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. “I’ve wanted this so much.”

“Yeah,” she murmured against his mouth. “I don’t know how you held out so long.”

“You told me to be patient,” he laughed softly.

“No more talking,” she told him. Then he pulled back and before she could protest he was there again and again, his fingers squeezing and tickling under her knee as he moved, his eyes desperate as they locked on hers. She lifted one hand and wrapped it behind his neck, giving herself something to hold onto because he was moving now, hard and fast, sliding in and hitting her in the perfect spot, the perfect ridge, deep and shallow all at once, there and there and there again, a light flutter beginning, the burn in her thigh as he pressed her leg back, his pace relentless, the sharp jut of his hipbones hitting her flesh and the hard thrusts of his hips almost too much, _he_ was almost too much.

Almost.

And then because she was Emma, she started to realize they weren’t using protection and it was enough to make her hiss a good “fuck,” but _fuck_ it was good and it had been so long and oh there. “There.” But _protection_ and she let go of his neck, her hands coming to his chest, her mouth hot against his as she said, “wait, wait.” And then, “I want to taste myself on you.”

His hips stuttered, his hardness filling her once, twice more before he stopped, his head dropping down to her chest as he panted against the skin between her breasts.

“Emma, that’s--” He looked up at her then, his eyes hungry as he cocked the corner of his mouth at her. 

He pulled out and laid out next to her, his arms flopping next to his head. She rose to one elbow, looking down the length of his body--his very hard, very defined body--appreciating every plane and every angle as she tried to catch her breath and tried to quell the frenzy between her legs. Gathering her hair over one shoulder, she slid down next to him and crawled over until she was kneeling between his legs, shifting around a little bit to make him open wider. Then with a quick glance at his face, she leaned down and took his cock in her hand, smiling at his deep, inhaled breath. She moistened her lips and pressed a kiss just on the tip, feeling very powerful when his entire body tensed and a moan reverberated in his chest. Then she dropped her jaw and dipped down, taking him in, her tongue pressing broad and flat on the underside of him and she kept going, the tang of her all over his cock, wet and wetter still as she went deep. She felt the strain of tears as she took it, trying to relax her jaw, moving her head in tight arcs as she shimmied back up and then back down again, her head moving up and down his length, her hands braced around the base of him as she worked. She began to press her thighs together to ease the ache that was still there, the ache of him not being inside of her but he was inside her mouth, his hips straining to remain still, one hand coming up to her hair and wavering before he tangled his fingers in it, pulling as her head moved.

She could feel his tension, could feel his muscles going rigid so she stopped, knowing there’d be more times she could do that but she wanted him back in her. Pulling away completely, she released his cock and felt it brush her lips as she gasped in a breath, smiling and looking up at the torture in his features.

“Condoms,” she said clearly, her body crying out because she’d left them in her bag above deck.

“Drawer,” he grunted, turning and diving for a little desk next to the bed. He yanked a drawer and stuck his hand in, producing a line of foil packets and ripping one off impatiently.

“Had to drive far away to get these,” he said darkly, tearing the package open and pulling out the condom. Emma grinned; he chuckled and said, “Didn’t want to announce my...preparations in such a small town.”

“I had that same thought,” she said, biting her lip as she watched him roll it on. “Prior planning, and all that.” He grinned as he looked up at her and scrambled to his knees, leaning down to kiss her softly. He pressed his forehead to hers, his breathing ragged against her lips.

“You sure, love?”

“Oh, God, yes,” she whispered.

“All right,” he said. He turned them, laying her down and bracing himself over her body. Emma could feel herself yearning for him, wanting him closer despite the fact that they were about as close as could be. She _wanted_. She wanted him and she wanted what he was offering with his eyes that were as full of vulnerability as they were with desire. She tilted her chin up and he immediately kissed her, his lips soft on hers even as his arms were hard at her shoulders and his knees were at her thighs, shoving them aside with little finesse as he lowered his hips down. She gasped, feeling him thick and prodding at her again, then he was pushing in and she snapped, she just wanted him so much, she needed him to _move_ , she gasped again and again, breaking their kiss as she tossed her head around.

“Don’t be gentle,” she whispered. He closed his eyes as if in pain and nodded tightly, and then he thrust forward.

She sighed in relief. And then she held on, reaching out for him, for anything, really; she needed to be grounded and he did that for her, provided something solid for her to hold onto even as he was the one shaking her world, his relentless drive pressing her into the mattress, his body pulling away just to be back again and again, this slick, wet friction building inside her, his mouth open and little sounds of pleasure-pain pouring into her mouth as she nipped at him, her fingers digging into his skin, her knees alternating between squeezing him closer, tighter and falling open, she didn’t know what to do, she didn’t know what she wanted more--to urge him on or just give into it, to just let him fuck her and fuck her and fuck, “yes,” fuck _yes_. She was frantic, she could feel the build, could feel the insistent tightening inside as he kept hitting the same spot over and over, like he knew it was her spot, like he could just read it and how did he always know where to get her best? 

Then it became too much, she knew it, she could tell, she’d only had an orgasm like this one other time, the kind where it wasn’t even that blinding light of bliss but the kind where she loses time and her name and her place and there’s only what he’s doing to her, do it, do it, more more and no stop it’s going to--she’s going to--

 _Sigh_ deeply and shaking, she was shaking and out of control, she was clawing at him too hard but don’t stop, please god please “Killian,” she sighed and the shaking slowed to a tremor but he was still going, he was leaning on one arm and reaching between them and she opened her eyes and smiled but he was smirking feral and dark, he wasn’t in there anymore, he was a decadent thing and she realized right when his fingers began to swirl over where they were joined that he wasn’t done with her, he was slowing his pace into something long and purposeful, a rolling of his hips as he made his thrusts more shallow, finding a new spot and _again?_ and how did he _know_?, she gasped when a new tingle began, a different place, a wetter place, his fingers light on her clit as he circled and rolled and curled his lip in a dark sneer. She readjusted her grip, moving her hands to his shoulder blades as she nodded, urging him on for another, lifting her hips into the new angle and smiling as she moaned breathily, breathing him in and laughing when he leaned down to suck her lip in between his teeth.

He bit down, not light but not too hard, still thrusting and she experimented by clenching inwardly and that’s when he bit harder, cocking the corner of his lip even as he kept biting at her lip so she squeezed again and felt triumph when it made the smooth pace he’d set falter and then he got this desperate look in his eye and started thrusting faster, keeping the tight, shallow angle as his fingers danced faster over her clit and then she started to fall again, this time the tickle making her burst inside, calling out loud and again and again, she called for him and pulled him closer but he was tense and unmoving above her, the muscles she could feel under her hands tense as his eyes squeezed shut and he groaned once, his hips stopping, she could feel him surging inside and he groaned again, this time in relief, dropping his head down, his hair tickling her face. 

And then he relaxed, his entire body drooping as he slowly lowered himself to her, the utter joy of feeling him covering her a delightful surprise as she was enveloped in his warmth and his slick skin. She couldn’t help it, she was grinning too much as he buried his face next to her head on the pillow so she squeezed her muscles again, making him jerk in response.

“Swan,” he warned into her neck, and she could feel the happy smile in his voice. The exhausted, wrecked smile. 

“Aftershock. Not my fault,” she said, flopping her arms to the side. He kissed her skin and chuckled before settling down again. Emma let it happen; this was something she’d never wanted, a man just lying on top of her and in her, but she suddenly realized it was something she’d always want with him.

Because this would happen again. God, would it happen again.

After a few minutes of just lying there, sated and boneless, Emma became aware of her surroundings when there was a deep swell that rocked the boat and the bed. Sex. Finally. Really great sex. Maybe the best sex. In the middle of the ocean. 

“I’m too heavy,” he said, interrupting her happy and lazy thoughts. He gingerly pulled out and rolled over, leaving her feeling without but then he drew her to him, leaning down for the gentlest kiss yet, a simple pressing of lips on lips, no reason behind it, no need or desire or desperation, just a kiss because he wanted to and because she wanted it. 

“Yeah, well,” she said as he got up. “I like having you on top of me.”

“Maybe you can be on top next time,” he said, ridding himself of the condom and disposing of it in a little trashcan by the desk. 

“Next time?” she said, grinning. “I’m a one-night stand kind of girl. Hadn’t you heard? Storybrooke isn’t discreet.”

“Forgive the assumption,” he said, coming back to the bed and crawling over to her, intent and unsmiling though his eyes were absolutely twinkling with mischief. “But if it’s all right with you, I’d like the chance to show you that I can perform much better than that.” He kissed her forehead and then her ear, nipping at the skin below and speaking into her neck. “I’d been wanting this too much, and I’m afraid that wasn’t my best effort. Too impatient, it’s something I’ve been working on lately.”

“Not your best, huh?” she breathed, impossibly feeling a slight stirring of interest inside. She almost regretted the whole male thing of needing recovery time. “I knew there was something wrong with you.”

“Allow a man the chance to make it up?” he asked, flopping down next to her. “Once he’s re-hydrated, perhaps. And taken in some calories. That was bloody fantastic, Swan.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. She closed her eyes and waited for the doubting to show up, but all there was was more longing, like she couldn’t wait to find out whatever he was going to say or do next. It wasn’t a new feeling with him, but it was almost unexpected. She wondered if she was ever going to get tired of him.

 _No way_ , her mind insisted. 

She agreed.

She must have dozed for a bit, coming to at another rocking of the boat, and she realized they’d been out there for a while. Henry was spending the night at a different friend’s house, but Emma didn’t really want to stay out all night. 

“It’s late,” he murmured sleepily, his voice muffled because his face was buried at the back of her neck. “I should take you back.”

“Come with me,” she said before she could take it back, realizing as she did so that she didn’t want to take it back, not even a little bit.

“Okay,” he said.

* * *

“Morning, guys.” Henry came bounding around the corner into the kitchen after slamming the front door, and Emma braced for impact. She was freshly showered (and freshly orgasmed--she always figured she was way too protective of her hot water that she wouldn’t want to share a shower with anyone, but once again, Killian bashed through all of her preconceived notions about how she felt about things, all while soaping her up and paying extra special attention to the top half of her torso before making her come with three fingers), and Killian was at her side, grinning at her over his cup of coffee.

“Morning, lad,” he said. Henry stopped and eyed the two of them speculatively, but he didn’t say anything further, just helped himself to a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles and plopped down across from them at the table. 

“You’re up home early.”  


“Cory’s cereal selection sucks, his mom only buys Special K.”  


“Ah.”  


“Can we go out on your boat today?” Henry said between mouthfuls. “Seems like good weather for it.”

“Yeah,” Emma grinned, setting her mug down. “I like it out on the boat.” She looked at Killian and exchanged sly smiles with him, which made Henry groan.

“Gross. Never mind, I don’t want to go out on the boat.”

“Oh?” Killian said nonchalantly, swiping his mouth with his thumb. “I was going to let you drive it today.”

“Oh shit, really?” Henry said, getting excited.

“Language, lad.”

“I mean, heck yeah, let’s go out on your boat. Mom, you coming?”

Emma refrained from responding as Killian suppressed laughter.

“Ugh.” 

“Actually, I think it should just be you and me, Henry,” Killian said seriously, turning to face her kid. “We can all go out another time. I rather like our time together.” He sounded almost uncertain, and Emma felt this welling inside her, an overwhelming burst of feeling--fondness that he genuinely wanted to hang out with her kid, and an overprotectiveness that she wanted to punch everything that had ever made him feel so unsure. Luckily for her, her kid seemed to feel the exact same way.

“Of course. I like it, too.” His voice-- just teetering on the edge of man-not-quite-man--was firm and decisive. Then she heard a bit of the boy beneath as he said, “I like having you around.”

Emma felt stupidly proud about that, even as she felt like she wanted to cry. Instead, she leaned into Killian, putting her head on his shoulder. 

“I think you’re right, kid. We should keep him.”

Henry nodded happily, his eyes darting between the two of them as he shook his head.

“Told Liam you guys would be good together.”

* * *

“Swan.”

“Jones.”

He dropped a white paper bag at her desk. Smirking, Emma peeked inside as he walked back to his own desk. 

There was a bear claw inside.

Raising her eyebrows, Emma pulled out her favorite, watching Jones as he sat down.

“For whatever you did that put my brother in such a good mood,” he said, smiling softly in her direction. “He was up and bouncing around the kitchen, whistling and humming. I’ve not seen him that way in ages, so. Thank you.” 

“Hmm.” Emma felt like bouncing around herself. There’s just something about a future that’s wide open with the possibly of good things that was so comforting to her. “Whatever it was, I feel like I should warn you about something.” She pinched off a piece of her donut and stuck it in her mouth, closing her eyes and enjoying the rarity of a good morning moment with her pain-in-the-ass coworker. 

“Oh?” Jones said, his brows drawing down as he looked at her expectantly.

“You might wanna wash the boat’s bed sheets.” Jones froze.

“Swan,” he breathed. “You didn’t.”

“Hey, no take-backs. You just thanked me for whatever it was I did, so I just assumed you’d be happy to know that--”

“Enough.”

“I mean, you worked so tirelessly to get us together that I figured you’d like hearing about how successful you were, and all, and--”

“Swan. I regret ever meeting you.”

“Nah, you don’t.”

He smiled genuinely then, shaking his head as he met her gleeful stare directly.

“You’re right about that.”

“Oh, and Liam?”

“Yes, Emma?”

“Thanks.”

* * *

“Ten bucks,” Granny insisted, putting her hand out. Leroy grunted, reaching for his wallet and slapping two fives in her palm. She looked with satisfaction at the corner booth, smiling as she watched that Killian Jones boy duck his head bashfully. Deputy Swan was smiling broader than she’d ever seen, reaching over for a french fry from his plate and swiping it through some ketchup before offering it to him. He wrapped his lips around it and the tips of Swan’s fingertips before pulling back, chewing with a thoughtful grin. The woman seemed dazed, unable to take her eyes off of the handsome man as he first swallowed then began to speak; Granny almost wished she could hear them over the din that was the dinner hour, but she figured whatever it was was probably dirty and flirty if the flush on the deputy’s face was any indication.

“Get a room,” she grunted out loud, pocketing her winnings and bustling over to refill coffees across the counter.

* * *

Much, much later, Emma let it slip one day. She hadn’t meant to, but she’d been thinking about it for so long that it just seemed like one of those things that was assumed.

“What?” Killian looked startled, his entire body still, his hands frozen in the act of grasping a hatchet. Beautiful summer day, just a little too warm, Emma not at all sorry that he had stripped down to just pants. She was sitting in a foldable camp chair, swatting at buzzing gnats and watching him work while Henry was out in the woods somewhere, looking for some plant that Killian insisted was good for soothing bug bites.

“What?” Emma said, wondering at the look on his face, but she was too damned distracted watching the sinewy muscle and the dark ink on his back flexing and contracting as he hacked away at a troublesome branch to construct their shelter. Emma had a nice, brand new, three-room tent in her brand spanking new rucksack, but both Killian and Henry had seemed offended that she’d even packed it.

“It’s just…” he trailed off, turning back to his tree and raising his arm one more time, the hatchet crashing down and the branch finally falling off. He bent over and Emma watched his movement very carefully, her mouth open slightly as she thought about the strong thigh muscles underneath the pants riding low on his hips. Then she remembered her kid was there, and that there would be no sharing of slumber bags. Damn.

“You just said you were in love with me,” he said softly, looking over his shoulder to fix her with one of his intent stares, only this one was far less menacing and much more direct. 

“Did I?” she asked, replaying her comments in her head from before she’d gotten lost in ogling the hardbody performing feats of strength before her very eyes. 

“ _Mary Margaret was scolding David for being so hard on you, and I told her to let up, that it isn’t easy watching a friend you think of as a sister fall in love with someone who looks like he’s killed a man_.”

“Guess I did,” she grinned. She could hear Henry crashing around none-too-subtly, his way of signaling to them to break apart before he got back, even though (this time, at least), they weren’t all over each other. Emma stood and walked over to Killian, leaning up on her toes to kiss the scruff at his jaw. “I do, you know.”

“And I, you,” he said, his eyes brimming and full. 

“Gross,” Henry said, coming back with some wicked-looking leaves in his hands. “I gave you guys fair warning.”

“Deal with it,” Emma said, wrapping her arms tighter around Killian’s neck. 

“Your mother’s just told me she loves me, lad.”

“This is news?”

“She must have been inspired by the trees again,” Killian grinned, lifting one hand from her waist to wave around them expansively. “Very inspiring, these woods.”

“Lovely, dark, and deep,” she said seriously, feeling a twinkle in her eye.

“Aye.” He looked down into her face, his nose brushing against hers as he kissed her sweetly. “No more miles to go until I sleep, however. I do just fine now.” Emma felt her brow draw down in puzzlement. “Frost? I thought you were quoting a poem, Emma.”

“I don’t do poetry,” she scoffed, dropping down to her feet and releasing his neck. 

“I’d argue that,” he said, reaching for her again.

“Seriously, guys. Gross. I’m still a kid.”

“Sorry, lad.”

“Are not.”

Killian kissed her again.

“Oh, Jesus, spare me,” Jones said, coming back to the campsite. He dropped a sack full of what must have been rocks at their feet. “I have to see that at home and sometimes at the station. Must I see it on vacation, as well?”

“If you didn’t want to see me happy, you shouldn’t have tricked me into meeting the most remarkable woman on the planet,” Killian said. It was a repeated refrain. 

Both Jones and Henry rolled their eyes. 

Emma responded to all of it by pulling Killian down by his collar and kissing him soundly.


End file.
